


my heart is out traveling

by coffeesuperhero



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Road Trip, Brodinson feels, Brothers, Christmas, F/M, Getting Back Together, Holiday Fic Exchange, Holidays, Road Trips, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 17:39:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1096687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeesuperhero/pseuds/coffeesuperhero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At Frigga's insistence, Loki and Sif make a cross-country winter holiday journey back home for Thor's upcoming wedding. Along the way, they recover love they thought they had lost, for each other, and for themselves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	my heart is out traveling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> I took a lot of liberties with your awesome roadtrip prompt, and it turned out to be one part roadtrip, one part A Christmas Carol, and one part The Trickster Who Stole Christmas. Basically, here is a lot of words about the misadventures of two ex-married expats on a speedy cross-country holiday roadtrip of feelings, with bonus Jane/Thor, Darcy, Mastermind Momma Frigga, weddings, and a ton of Brodinson feels. Oh, and a happy ending. Naturally. Happy holidays! I hope they are warm and bright! <3
> 
>  **WARNINGS** : This story contains references to (and a major character experiencing) an extreme allergic reaction.

"Happy holidays!" 

Cheery voices and wishes of merriment follow Loki across campus as he makes his way to his office; he makes no reply save a half-hearted nod, the barest acknowledgment of all these unwanted seasonal greetings. It should be as plain as the frown on his face that he is not exactly overflowing with peace and goodwill at this time of year or any other, but people will insist upon being _jolly_ , especially the undergraduates who have already finished their exams and have little else to do.

He doesn't _say_ the words, "Bah, humbug," but he does think them. Loudly, and in the general direction of anyone wearing a stupid Santa hat and bearing gifts of baked goods. 

It's an unusually cold winter for the Bay; even his East Coast upbringing isn't doing him any favors today, and in the pockets of his trenchcoat, his hands are clenched into fists to fend off the chill. Winter weather does not trouble him overly much-- it never has-- but still after nearly a decade in this climate, he can't get the chill of the waterlogged air out of his bones. Then again, it had probably crept into his heart years ago, long before he ever left home and family behind to come here: California is nearly three thousand miles away from everyone he's running from, and yet some days, it is still not far enough. This time of year it always haunts him the most, memories settling over him like the fog that lingers in the early morning air, and many of them-- nearly all of them, if he's honest, which he usually isn't-- about _her_. He sighs into the chill as he walks, surprised when his irritated breath does not puff out in a cloud. It may be cold for California, but if he feels frozen it is not the air around him, and the ring on his finger reminds him that even out here in exile, there are some things he won't let go of. 

When he reaches the quad, he finds that the corridors of Stanford Law, at least, are thinly populated today, and thanks to the horrorshow that is any law school's final exam period, the halls are filled with an undercurrent of tension and fear that he vastly prefers to the air of forced kindness that typically pervades every public space at this time of year. Once upon a very long time ago, he might have joined them; today he is merely grateful that he makes it to his office without any further attacks of good cheer from strangers. 

He has barely begun to make more coffee and set to work when there comes a knock at his office door. He knows there will be a student standing there before his chair even completes its rotation towards the door; the knock is entirely too tentative for it to be anyone else. When he turns, just as he suspected, he finds a student: one of the 3L's from his law and econ course, if memory serves, which it does. From the crease between the student's eyebrows and the timing of his arrival, only days away from exam deadlines, Loki surmises this visit is not without purpose. Come to beg for clemency, no doubt. 

Students. So predictable. So pedestrian. 

"Professor?" 

He carefully composes his face into a reasonable blend of irritation and disdain before he bothers to meet his student's eyes. While he waits, letting his student suffer in silence, his mind ticks over facts and observations about him from this past semester of sizing up soon-to-be-lawyers: Lawrence, Anthony, typically sits front row, center, on time for every lecture, makes comments that are typically more insightful than inane, works like he has something to prove, does the reading, doesn't gloat. The last part makes him something of a sport as far as law students go; doubly so for a 3L who still does his reading. 

In the doorway, young Mister Lawrence is clearly awaiting a greeting, or recognition of any sort from his professor. He can keep waiting; he won't get it. Loki has never been the kind of professor who needs his students to like him-- on a Machiavellian scale, he falls far closer to the _feared_ side than the _loved_ \-- and as such, he has a strict personal policy of pretending not to know any of them until they _make themselves memorable_. 

No one really ever has, though this particular student has been marginally more distinguished than the rest of this year's dreary lot. It's a shame he's about to ruin it all by asking for an extension on his final paper; Loki takes a deliberately long sip of his morning coffee before replying, a silent toast to the hope that this student's excuse will at least be _entertaining_. 

He swivels a bit in his chair, lazily extending one hand towards the door. "Yes, Mister...?" 

"Lawrence," his student supplies, and Loki lets his eyebrows twitch in a vague sort of recognition. "From your law and--" 

"Economics course, yes, yes," Loki says, waving his hand. "And?" 

"Well," Lawrence begins. One hand nervously adjusts the strap on his messenger bag before he launches into what Loki hopes will at least be an entertaining set of excuses. "I'm sorry to bother you, I know it's not during office hours, but it's about the final paper--" 

_What_ a surprise. 

Loki holds up his hand. "The cutoff period for questions about the exam was a full week ago, Mister Lawrence." 

"Yes sir," Lawrence replies, shifting his weight from foot to foot in an annoyingly anxious dance. "But this isn't about the _content_ of the exam so much as it is the, er, _deadline_." 

There it is. 

"Oh?" he says, drawing out the word just a syllable longer than strictly necessary. There is a corresponding sharpness in Mister Lawrence's next intake of breath. 

It's possible he's enjoying this a bit too much. 

"I believe my policy on unforeseen events is covered in the syllabus," Loki continues, now idly toying with the cap of a pen. "I also believe it specifically states that clemency for late or, hmm, _unremarkable_ work is extremely unlikely, regardless of the underlying reasons." 

"It does, Professor," agrees Mister Lawrence, whose fingers are now gripping the strap of his bag so tightly that the skin around his knuckles is beginning to drain of color. "But it says _extremely unlikely_ , not impossible, and sir, I've had a family emergency and I was really hoping you'd reconsider." 

His hope for entertainment dies a quick death; few things are less enjoyable than someone's accounting of their various _family emergencies_. He decides to stop this before it really gets underway.

"Oh, you can turn it in whenever you like," he begins, enjoying the hope that blossoms on his student's face before he deigns to continue. "That doesn't guarantee I'll grade it." 

"Sir, it's _Christmas_." 

"Yes," he drawls, waving his hand around the room. "And no doubt the veritable yards of tinsel draped over every conceivable surface in my office led you to believe that might be a winning argument." Lawrence surveys the entirely _un_ decorated office with muted terror. "With that kind of attention to detail, I'm not entirely certain it would make a difference if you turned your paper in on time or not." 

"Excuse me?" 

"If this is a display of the your persuasive skills, then perhaps you should consider another profession," Loki drawls. "I can't imagine a court would have been forgiving about late filings, so really, I'm doing you a favor." 

"Thank you," Lawrence says, though from the sound of his voice, he feels anything but gratitude. 

Good for him. 

"Best of luck," Loki calls after him. It's adding insult to injury, but then again, he's very good at that. 

He's halfway through editing a moderately insightful paragraph in his next article when there comes another knock at the door, but this one is far more confident and followed immediately by an irritatingly cheery but familiar voice saying, "Good morning, Professor Scrooge!" before the door swings open. He doesn't bother looking up; there are only a handful of people in the building who would come into his office without permission, and far fewer who would greet him with some ridiculous nickname.

"Hello, Leah," he says, pointedly refusing to look away from his papers, though in his peripheral vision he can see that she is already settling herself into one of the more comfortable chairs across from his desk. "What can I do for you?" 

"A few of us are getting together later," she explains, her hand waving just inside his peripheral vision, perfectly manicured nails shimmering in the warm light of his office. Today they are painted an unusually festive green with red tips, and he frowns at them. "Drinks and mocking students, it's definitely your sort of thing. You should come along." 

"Terribly sorry, I'm busy at that time," he says immediately. The smile he gives her is incredibly brief and entirely insincere before he returns his focus to his paper. 

"I didn't give you a time," she drawls. The document he is so determinedly reading slides across the table under her palm, forcing him to look up at her in an attempt to snatch it back. 

He holds out his hand for the paper, which she withholds. He leans back in his desk chair, arms crossed. "Doesn't matter. Busy all evening. Friends in town." 

"Don't be ridiculous, darling, we both know I'm your only friend," she says, and he laughs. Most people would probably be irritated, but Leah isn't wrong: she does indeed hold the distinction of being his only friend, not that he _cares_ , exactly. He has a wide circle of acquaintances and he knows he can be extraordinarily charming-- when he feels like making an effort. Most of the time, he can't.

"And now we know why I think that friends are overrated," he teases. "Leah, I've said I'll be otherwise occupied, can you just--" 

"No, I cannot _just_ ," she says, but she does put the paper back down on his desk, frowning down at him while he relocates it to its proper space. "What can you possibly be doing later? I know you can't be doing anything holiday related." 

"I'll be grading exams," he says, gesturing to the pile of woefully inadequate essays stacked on one of his filing cabinets. "Someone has to inform these miscreants of their shortcomings, which are legion, I assure you. If you really want me to get into the Christmas spirit, you should buy me a rubber stamp that simply reads, _NO_." 

"I see," she says, tapping her nails on the desk. "You know, your students would appreciate it if you had a drink or two before you undertook to take them to task, I'm certain." 

He shrugs. "I don't care what they'd appreciate, I have a reputation to maintain." 

"I have it on good authority that the student body at large refers to you as _Professor Snape_ , so at this point, I think you've done all you can for your reputation." 

He lifts his eyebrows, feigning surprise. "Do you mean to say that they've correctly identified my academic role model? At least they've done something right for once, I suppose I should be pleased." 

"Yes, they've correctly highlighted that you strive to emulate an embittered, angry antihero," Leah says, and he gives her a grin. 

"It's good to have goals, don't you think?" 

"Hmm. I don't suppose you're going home for Christmas," she says. Her tone is easy and light, but he looks up at her sharply: she knows perfectly well what the answer to that question is, and why.

"I _am_ home," he says flatly. "And Christmas is not something I care about." 

"Well, fine, but come out with us anyway, you might have fun." 

"Why?" 

"Because otherwise you'll be home alone with a pile of papers and a bottle of glögg, telling yourself you don't care that you're alone and playing with that wedding ring you pretend you're only still wearing so that people leave you alone in bars, as though anyone believes you actually have a social life," she says, her exasperated words tumbling out in a rush. She is instantly aware that she has overstepped her conversational boundaries, and she pushes her chair backwards a few inches as she covers her mouth with her hand. "Loki, I know we're not supposed to talk about it, but it was seven years ago, don't you think--" 

"No, I _don't_ think," he bites out, "and apparently neither do you, since you brought it up." 

He buries himself in his paper once more, uncapping his pen as though he's unsheathing a dagger. Despite this clear signal that he is finished talking, she remains for a few moments more. Finally, she sighs loudly and stands up. 

"I'm sorry for caring," she says, and he hears her heels thudding as she makes for the door.

Two people in his life get away with that kind of pointed honesty, and she may be his only friend, but she is not on the list. One of those two people is his therapist, whom he pays for the privilege; the other is his mother, the only family member he likes. Still, when faculty parties drone on and he tires of talking with colleagues, Leah is a light in very boring darkness, and so in the interest of keeping his only friend, he puts the paper down and calls her back. 

"Leah," he sighs, and she turns back to face him. "It's... a difficult time of year. Besides, I've attended all the faculty parties for years, including the wretched annual winter holiday soirée. I'm _social_."

"You've only done that because you wanted them all to put in a good word for you when you go up for full professor," Leah points out.

He shrugs. "Everyone does that." 

"Some of us also enjoy ourselves," she says. 

"Hmm. That adjunct certainly enjoyed himself last year," he says, recalling the events of the evening in question. He's never heard anyone rant so loudly and at such length on the finer points of ugly Christmas sweaters.

Leah purses her lips. "Yes, well, _someone_ spiked the eggnog."

He studies his papers again, making only an amused humming in response, and she crosses her arms over her chest and leans over his desk. 

"It was already alcoholic eggnog, Loki." 

"I'm sure it was," he says, eyes as wide and innocent as he can make them.

"I know you did it," she continues. 

"I am prepared to stipulate that fact," he says, and her face is alight with the rush of victory for a moment until he continues, quite in a rush, " _if_ you will leave me to work in peace and not harangue me about my social life." 

"Fine," she sighs, exaggerating the sound for added drama. "But this is a temporary reprieve. I'm not giving up. I will harass you later." 

"I would expect nothing less," he says. 

"Enjoy your essays," she says, but then she paused at the door, head tilted thoughtfully to the side. "But maybe don't enjoy them too much. You can't fail everyone." 

"Watch me!" he laughs. "Enjoy your panicked 1L's," he adds. 

"I hate you!" she calls merrily, but she does at least close the door behind her, preserving his solitude for the moment. 

He buries himself in paperwork as soon as she goes, hoping to distract himself from the irritating fact that she had, of course, been correct about his holiday plans, damn her. The last time he had holiday plans that involved another person had been eight years ago, a year before the divorce. Their relationship had already been frayed around the edges, an unraveling rope to match all the other things in his life that were slowly descending into chaos. But that particular twenty-fifth of December had been an island of unexpected peace, curled up in front of the fire with her tucked against his side. Three-hundred and sixty-five days later, she was gone and he was alone, and the world has been much colder since.

Yet another knock disturbs his silence, not that he's been concentrating very well at all since Leah left. 

" _Enter_!" he barks, but when the door swings wide, it is not a student or a colleague who has chosen to interrupt his solitude. It is, in fact, the last person on Earth he might have expected to see standing there. She is exactly as beautiful as she was when last he saw her, though she looks far less angry now that they are not sitting across the table from the documents that divided up their lives and possessions, their attorneys arguing for them when they had no words left for one another. 

"Oh," he says, involuntarily. He blinks, once, twice, and again before clearing his throat and saying, with careful neutrality, "Hello, Sif." 

"Hello, Loki," she replies. Her hands fidget in the pockets of her jacket, an unusually overt display of nervousness and not at all unlike the first time he saw her, an agitated young woman with long dark hair only a few shades lighter than his own scowling up at him from the old chesterfield in his father's study. Sif had grown up in the States, but his own family had only recently relocated there; but for his mother's insistence that she would not leave her sons an ocean away in boarding school, he would have happily remained overseas. But Frigga had prevailed, and to New York they had come, and for his part he had despaired of ever finding anyone with whom he cared to associate with until the day that his father's head of security had to bring his wayward niece to the Aesir estate while he discussed business with Odin. 

"Is this a bad time?" Sif asks, breaking into his thoughts. She watches him with wary eyes, and he pinches the bridge of his nose, taking pains to use his right hand while underneath his desk the fingers of his left work to tug off the telltale band of platinum that had once symbolized their commitment to one another, but which now lives as a testament only to the sad universal truth that people do not keep their promises. 

"No, no, of course not," he says finally, nodding toward a chair. 

"I would have called, but I thought you'd avoid me if you knew I was coming," Sif says, settling herself into the chair that Leah had recently vacated. 

"Not entirely inaccurate," he mumbles, out of the side of his mouth. He spreads his hands. "To what do I owe the..." he pauses, casting about for a word before finally settling on, "pleasure?" 

She takes a breath before she begins to speak, rubbing her palms on her thighs. "I was going to come in here with some sort of elaborate ruse, but the truth is that your mother called me," she says, her fingers playing with a chain around her neck. "And she requested that I persuade you to come home. For Christmas." 

"She called me last week and I will tell you what I told her: I'm busy," he says, tapping a stack of papers and frowning. "Why would she call you?" 

"We exchange the occasional email," Sif shrugs.

"Why?" 

"Why shouldn't we? I like her, she likes me, we talk, that's all," Sif says, one of her hands now clenched into a fist around the arm of the chair.

"About what?" 

"For god's sake, Loki, I didn't sign my relationship with your mother over to you in the divorce," she snaps. 

The air is thicker and closer in his office suddenly, Sif playing with her necklace, Loki nervously tapping his fingers on his desk. 

"Right," he says, after a few more tense moments. "I meant to say... why would she send you to _collect_ me?" 

Sif shifts about. "I may have...mentioned that I was traveling back to the East Coast for the holidays, so she said we should go together." 

He leans back in his chair in surprise. "All the way to the East Coast? Why that far? Isn't your brother in Chicago?" 

"That was years ago. He might have moved, for all you know," Sif says. 

"Has he?" 

She rolls her eyes. "No." 

"Well then?" 

"Your brother's getting married at the end of the week," she says, all in a rush. "The wedding is in New York-- not the city, it's some small town outside of Syracuse. I've been invited, I'm going, Frigga says your presence is requested." 

"Oh," he says again. 

He hasn't seen his brother in a decade, not since the last family Christmas he attended, which had ended in a shouting match, and after, exile. His choice. It had seemed better than staying where he wasn't wanted. 

"Well, I wish him all the best," he says brightly. "I do hope that institution works out for one of us." 

"Loki," she sighs, and he shakes his head.

"What? I can't imagine why Mother thinks my presence is necessary. Or desired. The way Thor and I left things was not what you might call amicable, as you know." 

"Yes, I believe your exact words were _I hope I dance on your grave, you witless ox,_ ," she parrots, and he manages not to wince, but it is a near thing. 

Time and therapy have changed some things, at least. 

"As I said," he mutters, and nods at the door. "I fear you've wasted your time coming here, Sif, I can't possibly go." 

"That's what I told her you'd say," she sighs, standing to go, and if there's a pain in his chest it's probably just an abundance of coffee. Probably. 

She pauses to look around before she leaves, turning back to say, "It's a nice office, you know, you-- you've done well." 

"I have few complaints," he tells her, and her hand goes back to the chain at her neck, which he realizes by its design must be holding her dogtags. "And you? It's Major, now, I'm guessing." 

"It was, but not anymore," Sif says, pressing her lips together as though she needs to keep unnecessary words from escaping. 

"When did you--" 

"Two years ago, now," she says, giving him a smile that she doesn't even try to make genuine. "Of course now that I've left they're considering _allowing_ women to be Rangers." 

"There's a story there, I take it." 

"Too many," she sighs. 

"Did you go...?" He waves his hand in a way that vaguely indicates travel.

"Two tours," she says. Her tone does not invite further inquiry, and he looks away. 

"Ah." An apology seems inadequate for the hollowness in her eyes, so he says nothing more about it, casting about for something else to say, anything to keep talking to her for a few more minutes, because once she steps out the door, she's gone again. "Who's he marrying, anyway?" 

"A scientist, I think," Sif says, lips twisting in thought. "Her name is Jane. Jane...Foster?" 

Loki raises his eyebrows. "The astrophysicist?" 

"Possibly," Sif says slowly. "Do you know her? Of her? Whatever." 

"I don't know. There was an article," he says, gesturing to the stacks of papers and magazines and books neatly stacked on every visible surface in the room. "I read a lot." 

"Your mother likes her." 

"Good for her," he says brightly, and Sif snorts. Her hand drifts across the spines of the books on one of his bookcases, lingering on one volume in particular before she pulls it off the shelf. He frowns when he notices what it is: an old leatherbound copy of one of his favorite books. Thor had given it to him during his first Christmas in law school, along with the inscription, _saepius exertus, semper fidelis, frater infinitas_ : often tested, always faithful, brothers forever. 

Well, _that_ had certainly been a losing sentiment. 

"I figured you would have burned this by now," she says, tapping the cover. 

"I burned bridges, not books," he says, standing and holding his hand out for the book. She ignores him. "I'm not a _monster_." 

"Right. And would you like to tell me more about how much you don't care?" Sif asks, turning the book over in her hands. "Frigga said it would mean the world to him, Loki." 

"I do hope this isn't a display of your idea of military strategy," he snipes. 

"Diplomacy seemed courteous before a declaration of war, but be advised: force is my back-up plan." 

"You have to negotiate that," he grumbles, and she laughs. 

"I thought I'd give you a right of refusal before I kidnapped you," she drawls. "Be glad this wasn't a preemptive strike. Look, I know you're busy, but it's Christmas, and--" 

"Yes, it is, and holiday traveling is incredibly overpriced, and I'm not spending money on a plane ticket," he says. Her eyes drift over the array of expensive books and electronics littering the room, and he clears his throat. "And they've started serving peanuts on planes again," he adds petulantly. 

"No planes, perfect," she says, pulling a set of car keys from her pocket and dangling them in front of his face. "I was planning to drive." 

"Drive? My god, Sif, why?" 

"Why not? It's only a forty-eight hour trip," she shrugs. "I think if we each do six hours a day, that should get us there in plenty of time." 

"In time for...?" 

"The _wedding_ ," she reminds him. "The one your mother would like you to attend." 

"She'll fly out here if I say no, won't she," he sighs.

"No idea," Sif says breezily. 

"Right," he grumbles, considering the matter. His mother has not pushed him to do much of anything in all the years he has spent away from his family, but he knows her feelings on ceremonies of this nature, and he has little hope of finding any place on Earth in which to hide if she has made up her mind. She has always told him that his tenacity is genetic. He sighs, again, loudly and dramatically. "If either of you thinks I'm going to be pleasant throughout this affair--" 

"Civility is all anyone asks of you," Sif says, holding up her hands. 

"I am going to sit quietly and potentially plot the destruction of whatever ridiculous cake Father's money has paid for."

"I would expect nothing less," she says, reaching out as though she might pat him on the arm, but halting her progress before she makes contact. 

"Fine," he says. 

"Fine," she replies. She reaches down to pluck one of his business cards from the silver cardholder on his desk and jots down a number on the back of one of them before handing it to him. "This is my number, text me your address. I'll pick you up at six tomorrow morning, and please: don't try to run. I will find you." 

"Wouldn't dream of it," he says, though he is fairly certain that he will dream of little else. 

Sif shoves her hands back into her pockets and gives him an awkward nod. "See you tomorrow, then." 

"All right," he agrees, and she nods again before striding away, her hand once more clutching at the chain around her neck. She does not look back.

He waits until he can no longer hear the heels of her boots echoing down the corridor before he sinks back down into his chair and buries his head in his hands. 

"Fuck." 

\+ 

All the way back to her car, Sif turns over their conversation, willing herself to think on their words and not dwell on the unfortunate fact that her intractable, irritable, _irritating_ ex-husband is, if possible, hotter than he had been seven years ago when they split. 

"He's still an asshole, Sif," she mutters to herself as she unlocks the car and climbs inside. "Okay, so, he's an asshole who happens to look really good in a suit. You knew that already." 

She peers at herself in the rear view mirror, angrily narrowing her eyes. "Get it together," she orders sternly, but she cannot take herself seriously. She shrugs out of her jacket and tosses it on the seat next to her, sighing as she does. Tomorrow morning, he'll be sitting over there, _lounging_ like he always used to when they would make the drive from Boston to New York on holiday breaks from school, long legs stretched out as widely as possible like a king on a throne. At least, given their current situation, he will probably ignore her for most of the drive and not lean over to use those damn clever hands to distract her, though the memories of the thousand other times he _has_ done that are probably enough to drive her out of her mind over the course of four days.

"Fuck," she says, resting her head on the steering wheel. "Why did I agree to this?" 

The answer is Frigga. This is all Frigga's fault, or maybe it's her own damn fault for feeling like she owed this to her former mother-in-law, the woman who had basically been a surrogate mother from the day her uncle had carted her out to the Aesir estate, the women who was one of the only people she had trusted to help her put herself back together when she had come back from her last tour of duty, battered and world-weary and disillusioned and sad. The song wasn't wrong-- war turned out not to be good for much, and she is only now just managing to look at herself in the mirror and not feel as though she is the face of it. 

Still, her devotion to Frigga aside, when Frigga had first suggested that she drive down to convince the family's prodigal son to return home for the holidays, Sif had laughed for a full five minutes. Then she had read the email again and realized that Frigga had been serious, and she had paced around her apartment for an hour. 

"I don't know why you think he'll listen to me," she had told Frigga, stalking back and forth in front of her coffee table. "I don't even know why you think he would want to." 

"Time may not heal all wounds, dear, but it does give us a certain sense of perspective," Frigga had said. "Please, would you at least try?" 

And so she had, and here they are. In the car, Sif sighs, then takes out her phone and dials. 

"I talked to him," Sif reports. "He's not in love with the idea, but he's in." 

"Wonderful," Frigga says, her voice so warm that Sif has to smile despite her misgivings. "I knew he'd listen to you." 

"I don't know why," Sif sighs. "We'll see you in four days. You know, if we don't kill each other." 

"See you soon," Frigga says merrily, and hangs up the phone. The sigh that escapes Sif as she places her phone in the back pocket of her jeans is as heavy as a tank.

This is going to be a very interesting roadtrip.

+

After an entirely unproductive afternoon made even more inefficient by the untimely arrival of three more students and a few colleagues, Loki gives up and goes home to pack. But no matter how many things he pulls out of his wardrobe, nothing actually makes it into his bags, and after an hour of fruitlessly tossing things about, he looks around to to find half his clothing strewn on his bed. Shirts and trousers and more ties and cufflinks than are strictly necessary form a disorderly pile next to his suitcase, waiting open on the bed for him to acquiesce to the inevitability of this adventure. 

For the third time, he checks his wallet; for the third time, he finds all appropriate forms of identification and various credit cards. He also finds one of his own business cards, and he sits for far too long staring at the phone number she had hastily scribbled on the blank back face. 

He slips his hand into his pocket for his phone and finds his ring, which he slips on absently as he unlocks his phone. _Your handwriting is still atrocious_ , he types, and waits, tapping his foot while he mindlessly opens one useless app after another, checking stocks he has no intention of owning and scrolling through emails advertising services to which he has no memory of subscribing. When no reply seems to be immediately forthcoming, he abandons his phone on the nightstand and resumes fretting about his sartorial decisions. Nothing in his wardrobe seems suitable for reluctantly attending the wedding of-- whatever Thor is to him now. Not a brother, but perhaps no longer an enemy-- ten long years have eaten away at a lot of his resentment, if not his considerable pride. 

She still hasn't responded, but Leah has: _Jsyk: I'm on my way to the bar. Don't expect to see you, but you are still invited. For the record._

 _Wasn't lying about friends in town_ , he tells her. _Going away for a few days. Don't let anyone vandalize my office._

The phone buzzes again fairly immediately. _Everything okay?_

He stares at the little blue cloud that holds her message. _No_ is the honest answer, but then she will press him for information, which he does not wish to give. 

_Fine. See you in a few weeks. Expect email excerpts of the worst of my students' exam answers._

He flips screens to read the message he sent to Sif again, increasingly annoyed that she hasn't replied. 

_I hope this is the right number, I'm not sending my address to a stranger_ , he taps out, but then with an agitated movement of his thumb, deletes the whole thing before he gets up to fold shirts and trousers and collect a hanging bag from the laundry room for his best suit. If he's going to be forced to attend his brother's wedding, he's going to be the best-dressed person in the room. Brioni will do nicely.

Just as he finishes packing, his phone vibrates on the nightstand. 

_Will just get address from yr mom if you don't text it to me , Loki_  
 _Srsly i will_

He snorts. _I do hope you're not texting and driving, Sif. I am quite literally putting my life into your hands tomorrow morning._

_ADDRESS_ reads her reply, and despite his misgivings about this trip, he grins while he types it out. 

_Thx_ , she texts back. _Be there at 6._

He chucks the phone onto the bed and sinks down beside it, slumped over with his chin resting in the open palm of his right hand, while his left hand works to loosen his tie knot. Absently, he runs his thumb across the smooth metal of his wedding band.

He is actually aware that it is somewhat pathetic that he's still wearing the damn thing, though his sad story about his untimely bereavement has gotten him laid more than once since he moved out here. It's a little unseemly, but he hadn't expected to ever see her again. He certainly hadn't expected to be sharing the small space of a vehicle with her for four solid days, but it's this or feeling like a thirty-four year-old toddler while his mother drags him along through the airport. At least Sif is likely to let him have his dignity. 

Sighing, he tugs off his tie and tosses it onto the bed. It reminds him of their college days and the night she purloined an article of clothing from his closet and made it her own, the first of many such occasions of sartorial theft. 

"I liberated one of your ties," she had said on her way out the door, fingers lingering on the sloppy four-in-hand sitting at the base of her neck. "I hope you don't mind." 

"Wait," he had said, beckoning to her. When she bent down over the arm of the couch for a kiss, he had reached up for the tie, undoing the knot with nimble fingers, muttering, "That was the most horrible tie knot I'd ever seen." 

He remembers her eyes, intense and warm as his fingers made carefully precise loops and twists at her neck; her remembers her voice, silky and smooth like the fabric at his fingertips, drawling, "Has anyone ever told you that you are annoyingly fastidious about fashion?" 

"It may have come up. Has anyone ever told you that you are irritatingly blasé about same?" 

"It may have come up," she had replied, glancing across the room into the mirror that hung there, admiring his handiwork with a sly smile on her face. "You would think with all these years of dress uniforms, I'd be better at it."

"You would think," he had murmured, suddenly aware that he was being surely but subtly manipulated, and not at all opposed to the idea. "Did you do this on purpose?" 

"Deception? From me? Surely not," she had said, while using the tie, he pulled her closer and closer until she was on his lap, her lips against his. 

"Do me a favor and don't stay out too late studying," she had murmured. 

"I'd much rather study your body of work," he had joked, while she laughed against his mouth, saying, "At this rate your knowledge of it will be encyclopaedic." 

He groans aloud at the memory. It is _entirely_ too warm in this house. 

+

In the morning, a low rumble precedes her arrival, and he hastens to look as though he has been doing anything but sitting by the front window, awaiting her. 

"I thought you were an earthquake," he grumbles, when he opens the door just before she has the opportunity to ring the bell. 

"No such luck," she says. She nods at his suitcase. "You ready?" 

"No, but I'll come along anyway," he says, staring out past her at the familiar sight of the old Bronco that has long been her favorite mode of transport, now parked in his driveway like it belongs there. For a brief moment, he can imagine that it does, and then she clears her throat and gestures at his open door, and the absence of a ring on her finger reminds him that they are still very much in the present and not in the past. He hastens to lock the door, one hand in his trouser pocket where he shoved his own wedding band before she got here, unwilling to leave it behind but incapable of wearing it in front of her. 

He distracts himself from thinking about it by mocking her car, which he knows is certain to rile her up. If they're going to argue the whole way-- and they probably will-- they might as well start now. 

"Are you really still driving this old thing? I can't believe it even runs." 

Her hair swings like a pendulum at her back as she walks away, raising the middle finger of one hand over her shoulder and sauntering around to open the back hatch of her monstrous old SUV. He follows, pulling his suitcase.

"Don't listen to him," she purrs, stroking the car. 

It isn't that he's jealous of a 1978 Ford Bronco. Really. He isn't. 

"If I've offended the vehicle, I'll be happy to stay behind," he drawls, but she takes his bag away and stows it beside her own suitcase, shutting the hatch with a gentle hand and another careful pat, this time on the handle.

"The car may forgive you in time," she replies. "Let's go." 

"If we must," he mutters, when she's just far enough out of earshot not to hear him. 

Grudgingly, he approaches the passenger door and tugs it open to find that seven years later, the car is largely unchanged. He really shouldn't be surprised: Sif has, historically, approached car maintenance and preservation with a tenacity like unto some kind of warrior caring for her weaponry-- he exhausted the Armor-All jokes years ago, but they make his lips twitch in amusement even now-- and this particular vehicle holds special significance for her, because it has the distinction of being the first. 

She had acquired it during their freshman year in college-- in his opinion, it hadn't been worth the thousand dollars she'd paid for the beat-up old thing, but after two semesters of waiting tables at some twenty-four hour diner in the spare time she didn't have between classes and scholarship requirements, she had enough cash to afford the parts she needed to start putting the derelict vehicle back together, and by mid-June, he had deemed it in an acceptable condition for him to be seen in. 

"I still don't think you need a car in the city," he had said, sliding on a pair of sunglasses with one hand while the other fumbled with the seatbelt, the old fabric slippery underneath his fingers. 

"It's not a _car_ ," she had said, lovingly patting the driver's side mirror. "It's _freedom_." 

"Freedom's an illusion," he had scoffed, but she had laughed and sworn she'd prove him wrong. Two weeks later, when she had showed up in jeans and an old t-shirt on the night of one of his father's tedious black-tie events, he had not taken very much convincing to let her liberate him from it, along with a half a bottle of scotch from his parents' nicest liquor cabinet. He had put up a front of protest, but as he looked at her, hands on her hips and keys outlined in scandalous detail in the front pocket of her _very_ tight jeans, his acquiescence had really been a foregone conclusion.

"You know, maybe you're right about the car," he had said, as they sat on the tailgate of the Bronco staring up at the stars. When she leaned over and kissed him, all warm lips and demanding tongue, she tasted like scotch and a freedom that felt far too real to be illusory. Much later, he would whisper into her ear that she had been right about more than just the car, and it was not only the liquor that had loosened his careful tongue. 

"I wish we could stay here forever," he confessed, honesty unintentionally escaping along with the air in his lungs. She stretched against him, her head resting on his chest, and sighed. 

"Someone would miss us eventually," she had said, slipping her fingers between his as she nestled close against him. Her hair tickled his nose, but he didn't push it away. 

"Someone would miss _you_ ," he told her, bringing her hand up to his lips in a rare moment of unguarded affection, "but who would miss me? You're already here." 

She had kissed him again after that, and then there was much less to say. They hadn't come back until the sun was rising, breaking through the clouds to streak the sky through with gold. The sky this morning, however, is a dull grey, a sharp contrast to the brilliant morning that drifts across the field of his memory, and he sighs as he reaches for the seatbelt. 

"Okay," she says, as she closes her door and adjusts her own seatbelt, "let's go." 

"Once more into the breach," he mutters; she ignores him. He responds by pretending to read important correspondence on his phone, all of which are campuswide emails about various holiday events. A few turns in the road later, he looks up to find that they are not at all where they expected him to be. 

"What are you doing?" he asks. 

" _Driving_ ," she says, her right eyebrow arched so high it practically threatens to attack. 

"Oh? Really?" 

"If you have a problem, you're welcome to--" 

"You can't go this way," he interrupts. 

Sif waves her hand at the road. "And yet here we are. Are you going to do this the entire way?" 

"It depends," he says testily. "Are you going to take inadvisable routes the entire way? Will we be driving to New York via Mexico, for example?" 

"This is a perfectly appropriate route," she snaps. 

"How long have you lived here?" he demands. 

"I don't live here!" 

"Oh. Well, I-80 at Emeryville is a complete and utter nightmare, you need to take 101 north and then Dumbarton Bridge to 680 or we'll be here until next Christmas." 

She taps the steering wheel with menacing intent. 

"Turn left up there," he instructs, attempting to sound moderately helpful. 

"Fine," she says, gritting her teeth. "I don't expect us to talk the whole time, by the way. Or at all, really." 

"As you like," he says, overly contrite. 

"You said Dumbarton to the 680, right?" 

"No," he grouses. "I said Dumbarton to 680. The article is completely superfluous." 

"We are not arguing over this." 

"There's no need to argue," he says primly, folding his hands in his lap and stretching out in the seat. "I'm right." 

"It's just a way of putting things. There is no right or wrong here." 

"Of course not. By all means, carry on adding extraneous verbiage to your sentences," he drawls. 

"Yes, because you've always been such a proponent of linguistic efficiency, _Professor_ ," she fires back. 

"When you're as eloquent as I am, people hardly encourage you to talk less," he says, smiling over at her. 

"Oh my god," she laughs, pressing one hand to the side of her head. "We're going to kill each other. We won't even make it out of California." 

"On the contrary, I think we can last at least until we reach Salt Lake," he says. 

"We'll agree to disagree," she says, but her smile seems real, and they fall into a silence that is not as uneasy as it might have been. 

By the time they hit 680, though, he is desperate for something to fill the air, and apparently she feels the same, because they both reach for the radio at the time. 

"Passenger picks the music," he says, batting her hand away. 

"Let me guess," she says, shaking her head. "When it's your turn to drive, suddenly the driver will pick the music." 

"I can't help it if different time zones adhere to different rules about vehicular soundtracks." 

"Well," she says, pushing his fingers out of the way so she can fiddle with the controls, smirking over at him briefly as she does, "I can't help it if those rules don't apply in my car. Driver picks the music. End of." 

"Fine," he sighs, settling against the window. 

"Sleep, if you want." 

"While you're driving? Hardly," he grumbles, but she doesn't take the bait. 

It's just as well. They don't speak again until Sacramento, when they stop to stretch their legs. His pleas for coffee-- preferably Starbucks, he'd commit several indictable offenses for some espresso, earn him only an eyeroll and a large cup of steamy filling station sludge. He sips at it grudgingly until it becomes clear that sulking will not win him anything, and he sighs and gulps it down. 

She drives. The world rushes past in a blur of colour that he does not bother to try and separate into its individual components, and by the time they leave California, he has surrendered to the inevitable: he is going _home_. He shifts in his seat, trying to arrange his long limbs in such a way that ensures at least a modicum of comfort. 

When she breezes past a line of semi trucks, he finally breaks the silence between them. 

"Do you remember what I said to you the first time you drove me anywhere?" 

She doesn't take her eyes off the road, but a wide grin spreads over her face at the memory. "Yeah, I think you said: 'Sif, anyone who drives slower than you is a coward, but anyone who drives faster than you is an idiot.'" 

"It's still true," he says, toasting her with the dregs of his coffee. 

"You always drove slower than me, though," she says.

"Then I suppose I knew what I was talking about," he says, settling the empty coffee cup in the cupholder between them. "Thor always drove faster than you." 

"Loki," she sighs. 

"Sif," he parrots, watching her grip the steering wheel in irritation. It's not that he sets out to devil her, it's just that she's so dreadfully beautiful when she's angry. 

"You said we'd make it to Salt Lake, don't forget," she reminds him, and he inclines his head toward her. 

"If you don't live in the Bay, why did Mother send you to collect me? I hope she didn't send you too far out of your way." 

"I'm in LA." 

"That's six hours away," he exclaims, and then peers at her, searching for some semblance of a clue. "Out with it. Why have you agreed to all of this? You can't be in it for the pleasure of my company." 

"I like driving," she shrugs. "I like your mother. I owed her one." 

"For what?" 

"Does it matter? It's Christmas, and I just...I owed her one." 

"You like my mother, and that outweighed the grim prospect of four days in a car with me. Of course. I have a house with an oceanfront view in Arizona, if you'd like to stop there on the way to New York."

She punches his arm without looking. 

"You're here, too, you know," she says, sparing him a glance. "I told her you wouldn't agree to this, by the way, and I still don't know why you did, so you can unravel that mystery while you're suspecting me of...I don't even know, god, you're frustrating." 

"That's me, still frustrating after all these years," he drawls. 

"I can always leave you by the side of the road," she tells him. 

"Maybe I came along to ruin my brother's big day," he offers, studying his nails. 

"I wouldn't put it past you," she grumbles. "You're not, are you? You don't have some kind of grand plan to tank the whole thing? Because if you do--" 

"You will turn this car around?" 

"I might," she snaps, but then she sighs. "I don't want to fight with you the whole way, can we just... be quiet for a while, maybe?" 

"Fine by me," he sighs, and she turns up the radio. 

\+ 

They stop at a cafe somewhere outside some place called Winnemucca for lunch. He wrinkles his nose at the exterior of the place-- it promises to serve food that he will regret eating-- but Sif is already striding ahead, and she has the keys, so he sighs and shuffles after her. 

"Is there still a moratorium on conversation, or...?" he asks her, after they order. 

"We can try," she says, shrugging. "What do you want to talk about?" 

He opens his mouth and then closes it again. He hadn't really expected her to agree to this; their periods of enforced or stubborn silence had been somewhat legendary, and they had once gone for almost two weeks without speaking. He casts about for something innocuous to discuss. 

"What do you do?" he settles for asking. "You said you left the military." 

"I teach self-defense classes in LA," she offers. "It's a living." 

He nods while he toys with the salt and pepper shakers. "I'm sure you're appropriately terrifying in action." 

"Not to the people who take my classes," she says, smiling thinly. "But I wouldn't cross me." 

"Is that a threat?" 

"Are you serious?"

This is not going well. He backs up. 

"No," he sighs, pushing the salt and pepper back where they belong, then immediately regretting his decision once his nervous fingers have nothing to do. 

Blessedly, at that moment, the waitress arrives with their food; he grabs one of the fried potatoes almost before she's finished setting his plate down, any excuse to stop talking, but before he can even get the damn thing to his mouth, Sif's hand shoots across the table. 

"Don't eat that," she says, grabbing his wrist. 

He stares at her, open-mouthed. "What are you--" 

She looks up at the waitress. "Did you cook those fries in peanut oil?" 

"I'm not sure, let me check," the waitress says. She turns to the open window into the kitchen and shouts for the cook. "Hey, Benny!"

"Yeah?" 

"We fry these things in peanut oil?" 

"Yeah, why?" 

"He's allergic," Sif supplies. She pushes her soup and salad across the table and pulls Loki's sandwich and fries toward herself. "We'll switch, don't worry about it." 

"Works for me if it works for you," the waitress says, wandering away. 

"Can I have my wrist back?" he asks, after the waitress has gone, and Sif gives herself a little shake when she realizes she's still holding onto him.

He feels foolish for not having considered that this might be a problem-- he's lived with this damned allergy since he was a child, having had the misfortune to discover it on a family vacation. It's the only time in his life that he can remember seeing his father afraid; Thor, of course, had been bravely unconcerned, calmly saying, _just keep breathing, brother_. At the time, it had been something of a lifeline for a scared seven-year-old. As the years had gone on, however, it had always been just another reminder that he had been weak and Thor had been strong. 

"You okay?" Sif asks, and he isn't, but it's the allergy she's asking about, so he nods. 

"It probably wouldn't have hurt anything," he says quietly, stirring the soup that had formerly been hers. "The oil isn't usually a problem. But I'd rather not die on this little journey, so...thank you."

"Don't mention it," she says, picking up half the sandwich. 

"I really should have thought." 

"Don't mention it," she repeats. Three french fries disappear into her mouth. "Just trying to get us both to Salt Lake alive." 

\+ 

Sif hands him the keys to her Bronco like she imagines someone might hand over their firstborn child. Her reluctance is obvious, and she doesn't try to hide it, only pulling her hand back from the keys when her fingers brush against his and she feels that familiar old jolt of electricity spark in her veins, heart pumping her blood faster at the slightest touch of his skin. 

"Be good to her," she says, distracting herself by patting the hood of the car. 

"If you don't want me to drive it," he begins, but she holds up her hand. 

"It's fine," she says, even though it isn't. "I promised your mother, and I knew you'd use the peanut thing to stay off planes, so here we are." 

"It's a legitimate allergy," he says, unlocking the driver's side door. "I almost died once." 

"I know," she says, climbing into the passenger seat and trying not to wince when he closes the door with slightly more force than she considers necessary. "But I'm just going to guess that when you go to conferences for work, you let them fly you. First class." 

"Business," he corrects, holding up a finger. 

"I stand corrected," she says sarcastically, and then he turns the key and the car roars to life. 

Her sniping aside, he's not a terrible driver. He's occasionally overly cautious, but his moments of recklessness are rare, and she's mostly relaxed by the time they pass Battle Mountain, not even an hour away. The Bronco bounces gently over the craggy surface of the road while she hums along with the radio to whatever he feels like playing. Mercurial as ever, he frequently changes songs when they're only halfway done, muttering to himself as he does; she should probably be annoyed, but in spite of herself she still finds it endearing. After a while, she dozes against the cool pane of the window, trusting him enough to pilot them for an hour or so without her supervision. With her eyes closed, she can pretend that they're younger, that nothing has fallen apart, that their hearts still beat with love and the invincibility of their youth. She wakes up as they cross into Utah, sky and red rocks outside her window. 

"How's the Roadster?" he asks, and she glances distrustfully over at him, but he's not doing that thing that he does where he acts like a lawyer and deposes her, asking her questions to which he already knows the answers, so she sighs and tries to decide how honest she can afford to be.

Her lips twist in irritation. That kind of calculation is usually more his style and she knows it, but while she may not back away from a fight, neither is she the one to pick them, at least lately. 

"I wouldn't know," she says finally. 

"What? Why?" 

"I sold it," she admits, staring out the window at nothing but the memory of a 1966 Ford Bronco Roadster, Caribbean Blue, a big red bow across the windshield and a much younger Loki standing next to it, his smile unusually bright but his fingers twitching nervously at his sides as he pointed at the car and said, "Surprise!" 

The ring had been in the glovebox. When she had finally stopped kissing him, she had told him he hadn't needed to bribe her, she would have married him if he'd given her a piece of cereal for a ring. 

"What do you mean, you sold it?" Loki demands, and she snaps back to the present, where things are much less bright, no matter how emphatically the sun shines down on them. 

"I needed the money," she says tightly. 

His brow creases, and even behind his sunglasses, she knows his eyes are angry. "You needed the--" 

"Will you watch the road?" she snaps, refusing to continue until he turns his attention back to driving. "It was for...it was to help my brother. And I don't know why you'd expect me to want to drive it after--" 

"What did Heimdall do?" 

Her lips twist bitterly, and for once on this trip, it is not because of him. " _Nothing_ , nothing except pay for all my family's mistakes. My uncle ran the company into the ground in the end, and there was nothing left when he died. They had to declare bankruptcy, but there were... it's a long story, but the point is, all of the responsibility for all of it fell on Heimdall, financial and otherwise, and if I hadn't sold the damn car then I would have been powerless to help." 

"I don't understand." 

"You're a lawyer, surely you understand, you know, bankruptcy." 

"I'm a _brilliant_ lawyer, actually, and that's the part I'm having trouble understanding," he grumbles. "Sif, if it was that bad, why didn't you call me?" 

"Are you fucking kidding me?" she demands. 

"No," he says, so willfully obtuse that she refuses to dignify it with a legitimate response.

"It wasn't the kind of law you practiced," she settles for saying. 

"That's a poor excuse," he says, exactly as condescending as the son of a billionaire should be, and at that, she sees red. 

She slaps her hand against the seat between them. "I can't believe you think I would-- the ink wasn't dry on our divorce papers, Loki, and I was supposed to call and ask you for a _favor_?" 

"For your sainted brother, I would think you'd pick up the phone," he snipes. 

"I didn't think you'd take the call, let alone help," she returns, and when he opens his mouth, she rolls right over the words she is certain he is about to say. "And don't even think about telling me you're not that vindictive, Loki, you're _exactly_ that vindictive." 

"Fair enough," he shrugs, and she watches him for a long while, suspicious. "What?" 

"That was too easy," she says. 

"It's been a long time," he shrugs. "Maybe I've changed." 

"Sure," she says, but the rivers will run backwards before that happens. 

"Or maybe it's closer to the truth to say that I've changed enough to agree with you," he adds, and after a moment, she nods slowly. 

"Okay. And... about the car, you know, maybe it's closer to the truth to say that I just couldn't look at it any longer." 

"You fought me for that car," he reminds her, and she looks out the window again. In the rearview, she can see a sign advertising some Vegas wedding chapel, promising something about happily ever after, for as long as you want it, and she shakes her head and reaches for the chain around her neck, careful to keep what it holds tucked inside her shirt. The last thing she needs is for him to realize she's still wearing her damn wedding ring, albeit not on her finger. It's stupid, she knows, but she made a promise, she took an oath, and there may be other people and other allegiances, but he was her first love and by god he will be her last. 

"I would have fought you for a deck of playing cards," she says finally. "I was angry." 

"Was?" 

"I don't hold onto resentment," she lies. 

"Message received," he answers, and turns up the radio. 

\+ 

They reach Salt Lake alive after all. At Loki's insistence-- well, more like his refusal to do anything else-- they stay someplace _nice_ , which ends up being the Hilton off I-80. He's driving; he can what he likes. She wants to protest when he pulls out his credit cards, but she's just too tired to bother, so she doesn't. In silence, he hands her room keys; in silence, they ride the elevator. 

She's barely had time to dump her bag and look around her hotel room before someone pounds on the door. She jumps at the noise, automatically falling back on her training, then clenching her fists in frustration at her reaction. She stalks over to the door and flings it open to find Loki, holding up his phone, anger sharpening the already hard lines of his face. 

"All right," he says, brandishing the phone at her. "What is this really about?" 

She shakes her head. "What?" 

"This little _roadtrip_ ," he snaps. "I hardly believe that the eldest son of such a prominent family could marry without it ever being mentioned. _Our_ wedding was a society affair, I can't imagine that Thor's would be anything less than a bloody coronation." 

"If we're going to have this discussion, maybe we could have it, you know, not in the hallway," she sighs, putting her ankle against the door and nudging it open wider. "Will you just come in, please?" 

He hesitates, but he shuffles inside, and she closes the door and her eyes along with it, forcing herself to breathe calmly before she turns to face him. Her teeth were already on edge by the time she opened the door, and his mention of their own wedding, a disaster in several acts, only serves to make her muscles tense further. He had not been wrong to describe it as a society affair; she had been forced to attend a few parties during the three years they had been together, but nothing could have prepared her for the magnitude of it. The more she had reflected upon it over the years, the more she had realized that the problems that would be their undoing had all been present then-- they may not have started at the ceremony, but there had been signs, had she cared to see them. No matter how much she had insisted to Loki that she didn't want any part of the giant ceremony, that she only wanted to be with him, he had never listened, always insisting instead that this was how it _had to be_ , that this was what would be _expected_ of them, that they had to keep up appearances.

"We're not ruling a nation," she had snapped, and he had rolled his eyes and said, "Not yet, anyway." 

She'd never hated him quite as much as she did in that moment, but in the years that followed, she had learned. 

Now she sighs, turning back to Loki. "What is your problem?" 

"I've gone through every Boston newspaper for the last three months, but there's no mention of this blessed event," he explains, gesturing towards his phone as he paces agitatedly in front of her bed. "In three months, there was not one drop of ink spilled over the impending nuptials of the man who will eventually take over the business and bank accounts of one of the world's largest and most successful multinational technological corporations, does that not seem strange to you?" 

"No," she says defiantly, not because it doesn't, but because she hates to agree with him when he's like this. She hates seeing him like this at all-- paranoid and angry, searching for any flimsy excuse to justify his rage. She digs through her bag, finally unearthing an envelope with her name and address neatly printed in someone else's careful handwriting. "Here," she says, shoving it at him. "That's my invitation to the wedding. Real enough for you?" 

He unfolds it as though he expects it to be filled with some kind of poison, and he examines the actual invitation with a patronizing air. "This paper is cheap," he declares. 

"It's _recycled_ ," Sif says, exasperated. 

"This doesn't make any sense," he says, waving the invite at her. 

"Look, maybe Jane is environmentally conscious. Maybe Thor is, now, for all you know, you haven't spoken to him in ten years. _People change_. Sometimes," she mutters. 

"Assuming for the purposes of this argument that you're correct, that still doesn't explain the absence of any mention in the newspapers," he says stubbornly. "And besides, something like this is easily printed by anyone clever enough to open Photoshop." 

Sif puts her hands up as though she means to physically push him away. "I had really hoped that this paranoia had lessened over the years." 

"Oh, it had," he snaps, folding his arms over his chest. "It seems that _certain parties_ enhance it." 

"You are absolutely impossible," she exclaims. "There are any number of reasonable explanations for this and as usual you just willfully refuse to consider them because you're so fucking convinced that you're right!" 

"Name one!" 

"I'm pretty sure I have!" 

"Oh, yes, this exhaustive list of alternative explanations--" 

"Maybe they wanted some privacy! Maybe they wanted a small ceremony now and a bigger one after the holidays, or maybe your brother _actually supported her_ when she told him didn't want to feel like she had to be someone she wasn't just because she had the misfortune of falling in love with one of your father's sons!" 

They stand glaring at one another, chests heaving; for a moment she is entirely unsure that she won't grab him and throw him onto the bed, but her resolve returns and she lets the desire pass without acting upon it. 

"Right," he says finally, staring at the carpet, hands in his trouser pockets. 

"Are you really still blaming me for--" 

"No," he says, and she can barely hear it, his voice is so quiet. "I know this is hard to believe, but I didn't actually come in here to start a fight." 

"Okay," she sighs. 

"I didn't," he insists. 

"All I know is what I've already told you," she assures him. "Your brother is marrying this lady in three days." She shuffles her feet. "Your mother says he misses you terribly. I know what you know." 

"She might have lied to you, too," he muses, but the fight has gone out of his eyes, and he comes to sit beside her. 

"If she did, I suppose that means she knows I wouldn't keep the truth from you if I knew it," Sif points out. 

He nods. "I'm sorry I questioned your loyalty." 

"Tonight? Or--" 

"All of it." 

"I'm hungry," she says, standing. "I'm going to find some dinner. Do you want to come?" 

"Okay," he agrees.  
\+ 

The morning finds them back in the car. Neither of them look as though they had as much sleep as they would have liked, but he doesn't remark upon it: if her nights are sleepless because of the wars she has fought, he is not cruel enough to ask her for details of them. 

He is, however, cruel enough to demand the car's heater be turned down.

"It's freezing in here, don't turn it _down_ ," Sif protests, when he reaches for the console. 

"It's warm," he complains. 

"It isn't!" she insists. 

"Well, _I'm_ warm, anyway," he says, and winks over at her. "You know what they say, Sif, warm hands, cold heart." 

"They say it the other way around," she grumbles, but there is a hint of a smile on her face. 

"Then shouldn't the inverse be true?" 

"No," she says, but she points out a Starbucks on the way out of town, and the frost between them thaws a little more.

Halfway to Cheyenne, he changes lanes to pass a slowly moving Volkswagon, and just as he does, some jackass in a red Tahoe speeds up behind him, edging closer and closer even as he stares them down in the rearview mirror, certain that the force of his rage could set their vehicle on fire. 

"How dare you tailgate me," he mutters, glancing again in the mirror and then at the speedometer. "I'm already speeding, what more do you want from me?" 

The driver of the Tahoe flips him off, and that's when he decides that's enough, this is war. 

"If that's how you want it," he grumbles, pressing the accelerator gently, just enough to keep them sailing alongside the Volkswagon indefinitely, effectively trapping the Tahoe for as long as he decides to keep this up. 

Maybe he cackles a little. Maybe he mutters to himself about being the clearly superior driver while the driver of the Tahoe isn't even fit to be a minion in his new world order. 

But everyone does that. 

"Wow," she says, interrupting his tirade. "You still do that, huh." 

"Therapy can only do so much," he says. He does not stick his tongue out at her, because he is an adult, but he strongly considers it. 

"True," she agrees. 

\+ 

It's properly chilly in Omaha; the signs on the banks read nine degrees Fahrenheit when they pull into town and find a hotel. This time, she is the one who knocks on his door. 

"We've been stuck in the car for two days. I know it's freezing, but I'm going for a walk," she says, when he cracks the door and looks down at her. "I want to see what's going on with that light show we drove past. Would you like to join me?" 

"All right," he agrees. He doesn't really have any use for a festival of holiday lights, but he doesn't mind her company. 

"So," she says, while they skirt the edge of a large shopping mall, decked for the holidays in thousands of lights, "this trip hasn't been terrible." 

"Such praise," he says, and she jabs her elbow in the direction of his ribs, but in a friendly sort of way, and he smiles. 

"I have to say, though, I don't know what your mother wants out of this trip," she sighs. "It's not that I'm questioning her motives, you know, I just...I'm curious." 

"Question away," he tells her. "Though I think it's fairly obvious that what she wants is to get the band back together, as it were." 

"Hmm. And what are the odds on that?" 

"Not good," he admits, and they walk in silence for a few paces before she speaks again. 

"I know the history there, but Loki, he's your brother and it's Christmas and he's getting married, don't you think you could--"

He holds up one gloved hand, forestalling further efforts to exhort him once more to engage in some sort of fraternal forgiveness. "Please don't take this to mean that I'm fomenting drama, but Sif, didn't you tell me once that you were sick and tired of _me_ making every conversation about him?" 

"I-- point taken," she says, and lets the matter drop. As a quiet expression of his gratitude, he buys her some hot chocolate, extra marshmallows, and they keep walking along the lighted streets until they reach an outdoor ice skating rink set up as part of the city's holiday celebration. 

"You wanna?" she grins, inclining her head towards the rink. 

"I'll pass," he says, and she chuckles. 

"Only joking," she promises, leaning against the rink's bright orange barrier. They drink their hot chocolate and watch the skaters for a while, families and couples drifting along together, their laughter echoing across the ice. He forgets, sometimes, what happiness really looks like; in his line of work he is not often confronted with it, nor does he feel a particular need to seek it out. He watches couples, young and old, pulling each other across the ice; he tries to tell himself that statistically, plenty of their stories will end in tragedy, too, but that's just the jealousy talking and he knows it. Sif's hand rests on the barrier, a few inches from his, and he has never regretted letting things fall apart as much as he does at this moment, with her so close but still worlds away. 

"Should we head back?" he asks her, pulling his hand back away from hers. 

She nods, but reluctantly; he does not dare to hope that she, too, feels regrets. He's the one still wearing a ring; he's the one who won't let go, stubborn until the bitter end. 

"Probably," she agrees, and they turn their steps back towards the hotel, discarding their empty cups in a trash can near the rink as they go. 

"This isn't an insult, but I still can't believe you teach, you know, I really figured you'd be in a firm somewhere," she says.

"No one was more surprised than me," he replies. "But I suppose it all worked out." 

"You know, I think you're probably a good teacher," she says, bumping her shoulder against his, "when you're not being a jackass." 

"Then I am _never_ a good teacher," he jokes, which makes her laugh. 

"Those poor impressionable students," she says, shaking her head. 

"Law students aren't impressionable," he scoffs. 

"I don't know," she says, holding up her hand. "I remember your first year. It was not unlike boot camp." 

"On that point, I do not disagree," he says. "And you? Self-defense? I can see it, I suppose." 

"Can you now," she murmurs, with a subtle shift in tone that, had this conversation been taking place years ago, would have suggested to him that they needed to find someplace to be alone. Even now, for a moment he would swear that her eyes drifted all the way from his head to his feet and back; he has half a mind to ask if her she'd like him to take off his coat so she can admire the view. 

"Hmm. If half of your students aren't in love with you, I will be shocked," he says, doing a little gazing of his own, and damn this weather for requiring heavy coats.

"So says Mister Three Piece Suit," she laughs. 

"I had no idea you'd noticed," he says, a combination of vanity and this sudden strange flirtation warming his cheeks despite the chill in the air. 

"Oh, I noticed," she says, but whatever direction this might have been headed, it is abruptly terminated when two young women walk by them on the sidewalk, dressed in Army uniforms. Sif thanks them for their service, then falls silent as they pass. 

"I know that historically I haven't been the best listener," he begins to say, and she puts her hand on his arm briefly. 

"Thanks," she sighs. "You know, I really thought I wanted to fight, but war...war just wasn't what I thought it was. And I'm not as invincible as I thought I was. I guess nobody is, really." 

"I worried about you sometimes," he confesses. 

"I worried about me, too," she says. "A lot more than sometimes." 

Their wandering has taken them back to the hotel, and he makes something of a show of sighing in relief when they walk into the lobby, away from the cold and the dazzling splendor of all those lights. 

"Ah," he says, when they walk into the lobby, "at last, my eyes are spared the agony of all those millions of Christmas lights." 

"You used to love Christmas," she points out. 

"J'accuse," he says, hand over his heart, and she rolls her eyes, but she's smiling. "I've always been a very dedicated Grinch, I'll have you know." 

"Oh, and I suppose it really was Santa Claus, leaving me all those presents every year, tugging me out of bed early Christmas morning." 

"Must have been," he says, shrugging.

"Well, tell Santa that I'm sorry about the Roadster," she says, turning serious once more as they they step into the elevator. "I didn't enjoy selling it, I just... couldn't keep it." 

"You don't have to-- I shouldn't have fought you for it," he says, the generally pleasant tone of the evening coloring his response, making him more merciful-- more honest-- than he might have been otherwise. "It was a gift." 

"Did you almost just apologize to me? You're aware that's the second time this trip." 

"God, you're right. There's something wrong with me," he says, pressing his hand to his forehead. The elevator dings and slows to a halt on their floor, and he gestures for her to go ahead, one arm covering the space where the door retracts. 

"You know, you're not who I thought you would be," she says, pulling her key card out of her coat pocket and stopping at her door, just across the hall from him. 

"Who is that?" he asks, turning back to her. 

She bites her lip and meets his eyes. "The man I left," she says, voice low and heavy. 

He knows better to ask if whoever he is now has a chance with whomever she is; he's fairly certain that despite their lightly flirtatious tête-à-tête this evening, nothing will come of this. If it did, he'd probably be the death of it again-- he's better than he used to be, but he still spends more nights than he'd like to acknowledge lying awake wishing misery on his enemies for imaginary slights. 

"He's still in here, too," he admits, before the fear can choke his words back down. "We're sharing the space." 

"Well, I like this version better," she says, and steps toward him, hesitant, then closes the distance in a rush. They have both been out in the chilly night air, but her lips are warm against his cheek when she kisses him goodnight. She disappears into her room shortly thereafter, leaving him standing in the hall to contemplate what has just happened in shocked silence. When he finally turns to open his own door, it is with hands that are as cold as ice, though his heart, he finds, is unusually warm. 

\+ 

She gets up early and takes the car to get him Starbucks, because she has an idea for the next leg of their journey, and when it comes to manipulation, she learned from the best. When he opens his door, he accepts her offering of coffee with a sleepy smile, and she bites back a grin. He's always been nicer in the morning-- she had discovered early on in their relationship that he was oddly affectionate in his first half hour of wakefulness, and she'd always just guessed that it took that long for him to figure out that there were other people in the world, and he would have to associate with them. 

"I have an idea. You're not going to love it," she says, when he's halfway through his coffee. 

"I already hate it, matter of fact," he says, but his eyes betray his good humor. "What is it?" 

"Well, I was thinking, Chicago's mostly on our way and my brother's there, and it's Christmas, so..."

"Your brother," Loki says. "The brother who never liked me before we married." 

"That's the one," she says cheerfully. "Only brother I have." 

He stares at the coffee cup and then looks back at her. "Did you bring this to bribe me?" 

"Possibly," she says. 

"I'm impressed," he replies. "Okay. I suppose I've gone along with the rest of this, as long as we're making a tour of horrible holiday memories for me we might as well go the distance." 

"Great!" she says, plucking the coffee cup out of his hands and taking a long sip before handing it back. It's probably too familiar, but she doesn't care: after their brief conversation last night, she no longer knows where this is going, but to victory or ruin, she's apparently along for the ride. She hands him back his coffee and pulls out her keys. "Ready?" 

"As I'll ever be," he sighs. 

She lets him drive the first leg; she trusts him more than she would have thought possible a few days ago, but she still doesn't think it's a great idea to let him have the half of this trip that will take them to her brother's apartment. He doesn't admit that he's nervous, but he's also more irritable than he has been, and when she senses that talking is not going to be the best idea, she lets him pick the music. After the first hour of driving, he quietly changes it over to a radio station that plays holiday tunes; she doesn't remark upon it, but she does sing along, and if they both split up and take parts when "Fairytale of New York" comes on, no one is around to hear it. 

They change over when they're close to the Iowa-Illinois border, stopping to rest and refuel at a sprawling truckstop that bills itself as the largest of its kind in the world. Loki goes in search of coffee and food while Sif calls her brother to let him know they're coming. 

"You're traveling with whom?" Heimdall asks. 

"You heard me," she says. "Frigga asked. I couldn't say no. And anyway, he's-- I don't know, different. Bearable. Occasionally likeable. Be nice, okay?" 

Her brother is silent for so long that she thinks the call has been dropped, but just as she's about to pull the phone away from her ear to check, his voice rumbles across the line once more. "Very well," he says. "But only because you asked me." 

"Thanks," she replies. "We'll see you in about four hours." 

Loki comes back just as she hangs up, handing her a bottle of water and a bag of chips before he climbs into the passenger seat. "I don't suppose that was your brother saying he's unfortunately out of town," he says hopefully. 

"No such luck," she says, starting the car. 

"Onward, then," he sighs. He falls asleep ten miles later, and she suspects that he's faking, but she lets it happen anyway. If he wants to rest his head against the cold pane of the window to brood, he's welcome to do so. She wakes him up when they're midway through Illinois; there's ice and snow from a recent storm everywhere, and while she's by no means a nervous driver, it's still nice to have another person to talk to as she navigates the elements. 

They talk about work, swapping funny stories about their classes; Loki regales her with tale after hilarious tale about his law students and their antics. Some of them she suspects are highly embellished for dramatic effect, but Loki has always been such a good storyteller that she's never been bothered to demand verisimilitude, she just enjoys the ride. By the time they reach Chicago, her sides ache with laughter and he seems in substantially better spirits. She hopes the last couple of hours will be an emotional buffer; Heimdall will no doubt keep his word and remain polite and cordial, but this will be awkward no matter how nice everyone pretends to be. 

It's mid-afternoon when they knock on her brother's apartment door. Technically, of course, they are cousins, but some people are just family, and Heimdall has been a stoic, solid source of strength for her since she had come to live with her aunt and uncle as a child. She could never look upon them as parents, but Heimdall, ten years her senior, had instantly been more of a sibling; they have seen each other through a multitude of crises. 

"Hey, big brother," she grins, when he opens the door.

"Hello, sister," he replies, a rare warm smile on his face as he greets her. 

They hug briefly while Loki stands off to the side, casually aloof but for the way his fingers nervously tick against his palm. 

"Loki," Heimdall says finally, holding out his hand. 

"Heimdall," Loki replies steadily. 

If Heimdall's grip is firmer than Loki might have liked, he gives no indication, and Heimdall invites them in with polite, practiced civility. 

"Where do you want us to put our stuff?" she asks, and he waves to the corner of the living room. 

"I've turned the spare bedroom into an office," he informs them, "so I'm afraid sleeping arrangements are limited to the living room." 

"You can have the couch," Loki tells her, and normally she would have fought him over it, but she recognizes a peace offering when she sees it, and though this one may be for her brother and not for her, she's willing to let it go past without argument. 

"Okay," she says easily. 

"There is an air mattress," Heimdall offers, gesturing to the closet, and Loki nods. 

"That will fine," he says, then looks between the two of them. "I'm sure the two of you would like some time to catch up: I'm happy to fend for myself when it comes to dinner." 

"Sif?" Heimdall asks. 

"It would be good to take some time, I don't know when I'll be out here again," she says slowly.

"I'll be fine," Loki assures her, waving toward the door. "Please, go and catch up." 

"We'll be back soon," she says, and Heimdall reaches for his coat. 

They have coffee and then dinner, over which Heimdall expresses his quiet concern about this adventure. She assures him that she knows what she's doing, but it's as much to reassure herself as it is her brother, and they both know it. He doesn't call her on it. 

Loki is working when they return, stretched out on the couch with his laptop; he shifts around to give her room when she comes to sit beside him while her brother fields a phone call for work. 

"How was dinner?" he asks, still typing away at whatever he's writing. 

"Good," she tells him, nudging him with her shoulder. "Thank you." 

"It wasn't entirely altruistic," he mumbles, and she kicks at his foot. 

"I know, but still, I appreciate it." 

By the time Heimdall is finished with his unexpected professional emergency, it's late enough that she regretfully announces that they should probably get some sleep: it's only ten hours to their destination, but that's still quite a bit of ground to cover, and she wants to leave early. Heimdall gives her another hug and directs them to spare blankets and pillows and the air mattress for Loki, then leaves them to prepare for bed. 

With the lights out, Sif shifts around on the couch; it's not uncomfortable, but it is a change from a real bed, and it takes her a bit to find a suitable way to sleep, finally settling for lying on her back. Sleep evades her. She stares at the ceiling in the dark, watching the light shift as cars drive by. A few feet away, Loki is unusually quiet. 

"How's the air mattress?" she asks, betting that he isn't asleep. He doesn't even try to pretend that he had been, and she guesses that means he's more uncomfortable with this situation than he's willing to admit.

"Fine," he says. "It's not a five-star hotel, but it's not the floor." 

"Better or worse than that place we stayed in on fall break of sophomore year?" she asks, amusement tugging at her lips when he groans dramatically. 

"That was awful. I can't believe you talked me into staying in that hellhole." 

"Your face was priceless when we drove by that nice hotel the next morning," she laughs, remembering. "I can't believe we missed that." 

"Wouldn't happen today," he points out. "Thank god for smartphones. Though I maintain, as I did at the time, that we might have _stopped for directions_ at any point." 

"I told you, we were exploring!" 

"Oh, yes. _Come on, Loki, where's your sense of adventure_ ," he quotes, and she throws a pillow at his head: not her best strategy, as it was her only pillow. 

"I do not sound like that," she laughs. 

"I do not sound like that," he parrots, and she shouldn't encourage him, but she keeps laughing. 

"Give me back my pillow," she demands, and his laughter drifts across the room. 

"Spoils of war, Sif," he says. 

"You haven't won the war yet. Don't make me come over there." 

"What were you planning to do once you're here?" he asks. 

"Um," she says, involuntarily thinking of any number of things she should _not_ do. "Are you still ticklish?" 

"Of course not," he says, clearly lying, and she smiles when her pillow lands on her stomach. 

"Thank you," she says, tucking it back underneath her head. 

"You're welcome," he says. 

"I guess we should get some sleep," she sighs. "We've got ten hours left to do tomorrow." 

"All right," he says. If it sounds like he regrets that they must sleep, she's sure she's only imagining it. The mattress makes strange noises as he moves around on it. "Good night, Sif." 

"Good night, Loki," she replies, and she falls asleep clasping the chain that bears her ring.

\+ 

Ten hours after they leave Chicago and Heimdall behind, Sif turns the Bronco onto a gravel road which, according to the GPS, will take them to the address on the wedding invitation. The name on the mailbox reads _Selvig_ , and the roof and dormers of an old farmhouse slowly appear between the spaces of the trees as they creep down the driveway. In the passenger seat, Loki's fingers pick at a napkin from the last place they'd stopped. By the time they reach the end of the long driveway, the car coasting gently to a stop under an old oak, the flimsy paper is completely shredded, bits of it drifting like snow down onto the floorboard under his feet. Her fingers hold tightly to the steering wheel, a poor substitute for the dry warmth of his hand; all she wants right now is to try to convey some measure of comfort, but she hesitates to offer. He has never been good at admitting weakness. 

They climb out of the car, Sif yawning and stretching in the fading light, Loki taking his hands in and out of his pockets. The first person to come out to greet them is an older man wearing a Christmas sweater that appears to depict a reindeer peering through a telescope. 

"Hello? Oh, you must be Thor's brother," he says, recognition dawning suddenly. "Nobody really thought you were coming."

"And yet, here I am," Loki says, spreading his hands. Sif can tell from the tense line of his shoulders that nothing good can come of this, and she forces a smile onto her face and steps in.

"Sif," she says, interrupting before he can start a fight. She holds out her hand. "You must be Mister Selvig." 

"Doctor," he corrects. "But call me Erik." 

"Nice to meet you, Erik," Sif says.

"I'd shake your hand, but it seems we're already acquainted," Loki snipes, and then the front door swings open and a woman peers out at them. 

"Hey Erik, did you move my-- oh," she says, as soon as she sees everyone, and then promptly disappears back into the house, calling, "Thor!" as she goes. 

"That's Jane," Erik explains. He rubs the back of his head awkwardly and frowns over at Loki, but before either of them can say anything further, the front door of the house opens again, revealing not Jane, but Frigga, who beams so brightly at both of them that the strangeness of the day is almost entirely forgotten. 

Sif grins as Frigga makes her way toward them, descending the front steps like a queen come to greet her subjects, but somehow completely without the condescending air that should probably accompany royalty. Frigga has never been who Sif thought she would be: where she expects judgment, she has only ever seen patience and love; where she expects stuffy gentility, she's often seen a lighthearted sense of fun instead. She marvels now that the woman making her way so gracefully across the lawn to them once spent a few hours one summer afternoon helping Sif defeat her sons in a game of paintball, but that actually happened. 

If Sif had met Frigga as a younger child, she does not doubt that she would have suspected that Frigga had attended Hogwarts; her magic is quiet but strong. The world may think that Odin leads this family, but Sif has always known that it is the family's matriarch who runs the show. If she had needed proof, she would only have needed to look around at her own life for the past week-- not only did she and Loki make it to Salt Lake alive, they made it all the way out here, and though no part of her truly suspects they are headed towards any kind of lasting reconciliation, it is enough to know that they can be in each other's lives again without starting World War Three. She bites her lip and hopes that when Thor makes an appearance, whatever subtle magic Frigga has at her disposal will grace that meeting.

"I'm so glad you made it," Frigga tells them, reaching out for them both and clasping their hands briefly before greeting each of them in turn.

"Hello, Mother," Loki says, actually smiling as he says it, and Sif bites back a smile of her own at the warmth in his voice. Frigga hugs her son tightly before turning to Sif and opening her arms. 

"It's so good to see you again, dear. Thank you for coming. Was he much trouble?" Frigga asks. 

"I'm standing _right here_ ," Loki grumbles. "Also, I'm an adult, I'm not a toddler." 

"Of course you're not, darling," Frigga says, patting his hand briefly before fixing Sif with an intent expression. "So?" 

"He...wasn't any more trouble than I was," Sif says diplomatically, and Loki shoots her a grateful look, which she returns with a smile. 

"If you say so," Frigga says, looking between them. On the porch, the front door opens yet again, and Jane reappears. She stops in front of Loki first, she does not offer her hand, and he does not offer his. 

"Jane," she says curtly, after a brief pause. 

"Loki," he answers. 

For a moment, Sif thinks that Loki might want to duck before he gets a slap in the face or worse, but then Jane takes a breath, the setting sun goes behind some clouds, and the moment passes, although from the uneasy look that passes between them, both of them seem to know where they stand. 

"And you must be Sif," Jane says, turning her attention away from Loki. The smile she gives Sif is genuine and warm, and Sif notes with approval that her handshake is quick but firm. "Glad you could make it." 

"Me, too," Sif replies. "Congratulations." 

"Thanks," Jane says, grinning. "Listen, I know you just got here, but Thor said you used to work on old cars, and we've got a truck that could really use some attention, if you're up for it. I know there's not much sun left, but the garage has good lights."

Even as tired as she is from traveling, Sif can't help it: she's interested. "Yeah?" 

"It broke down yesterday," Jane sighs. " _Someone_ let Darcy drive it." 

Erik whistles and looks off into the trees; Sif senses that there is a story there, but she does not ask. 

"If you could get it up and running again, that would be great," Jane continues. "I tried, but it's not exactly my area of mechanical expertise. Do you think you could take a look while you're here? No hurry." 

"You know, why don't I take a look this afternoon? It'll be a nice break from the highway hypnosis, and if it needs new parts maybe we can chase them down before I leave," Sif suggests. "I'll look after we take our bags in." 

"I'll get them," Loki says, unusually helpful now that he is back under the watchful eyes of his mother. And, Sif suspects, he would go to any lengths to get away from Jane. "Please, do go on." 

"She might want to rest," Jane says pointedly. 

"Then I suppose she can say so herself," Loki replies. 

"I'm fine, really," Sif says, breaking into the uncomfortable silence that follows this tense exchange. She looks over at Jane. "Show me the way?" 

"Okay," Jane agrees, but if looks could kill Sif suspects that her return to California would be a solitary one. She can't be too upset with Jane: Loki may never believe it, but Sif knows exactly how hurt Thor must have been when Loki left. She told Loki at the time that Thor had been completely blindsided by the enormous well of resentment and anger his little brother had thrown at him; Loki had, predictably, not taken it well and told her that she was welcome to betray him as well. 

"Great, let's go," Sif says to Jane, who points in the direction of a detached garage, about ten yards away near the back of the house. They haven't even taken ten steps before they hear the door of the house open one more time, the sound of Thor's thundering footsteps echoing even all the way out them. 

"Hang on a second," Sif murmurs, her hand on Jane's arm, though there is little need of that: Jane has stopped walking as well, both of them turning, holding their breath, waiting to see how this will go. 

"Mother said you were coming," Thor says. "I didn't know if I should believe her. I'm... I'm very glad you're here." 

"Wouldn't miss it," Loki says stiffly, and before he can move away, Thor leans in to give him a brief hug. Over Loki's shoulder, he notices Sif and waves excitedly; Sif returns the gesture with a grin. 

"Okay," Sif says, turning back to Jane. "No blood was shed. Show me this truck." 

\+ 

Much to Loki's dismay, Thor insists on helping bring in suitcases. Wordlessly, he directs Thor to Sif's bag; seeming to sense that silent nods are Loki's preferred mode of communication, Thor says nothing in response, instead merely motioning for Loki to follow him through the house and up the stairs. 

"Your pick," Thor says, gesturing between two different doors, and Loki ducks into the nearest room. There's a small hallway connecting the two bedrooms, along with a small bathroom between them; the doors to both bedrooms are both open currently, and Loki can see Thor setting Sif's bag at the foot of her bed. He closes the door. 

He's in the process of hanging his suit in the bedroom's small wardrobe when the main door slips open and his mother pokes her head inside. "I just wanted you to know that we'll have dinner at eight," she says. 

He turns around to face her, raising a curious eyebrow. "We?" 

"Darling, you've come all this way. Just one family dinner won't kill you." 

"It might," he grumbles, but she only repeats, "Eight!" before closing the door again, leaving him alone with his thoughts. 

\+ 

When they reach the garage, Sif finds an aging Chevy truck parked inside. 

"What's it doing? she asks, staring thoughtfully at the truck. 

"It doesn't stay running," Jane sighs. "It goes for a few miles and then nothing." 

Sif frowns, turning over ideas in her head. "Starts okay?" 

"Yeah, fine," Jane says, fishing in her pockets. "Damn it, I forgot the keys, they're in the house. I swear I'm usually more organized than this. Well. My work is more organized. I'm okay." 

"Yeah, personally, she's kinda loopy. Like, sometimes she puts dirty dishes in the cabinets," says a voice at the door. Sif turns to find another young woman standing there, a bright red knitted cap covering her long dark hair.

"Yes, thank you, Darcy," Jane sighs. 

"What?" Darcy grins, but then shrugs and looks over at Sif. "Okay, it was just the one time, and she was distracted by your friend's big muscles." 

"Seems fair," Sif says, smiling over at Jane, whose cheeks have gone slightly pink. 

Darcy steps forward, waving. "You're Sif, huh?" 

"That's what they tell me," Sif says, holding her hand out. "Darcy?" 

"Yeah. I'm her intern," Darcy says, inclining her head towards Jane. "Was her intern. Now we're friends." 

"She was the only applicant," Jane explains. "Not for my friendship. For the other thing." 

"Got it," Sif says. 

"I was not the only applicant to officiate this wedding, though," Darcy says, pointing at Jane. "She asked me to do that. It was sweet." 

"She said yes," Jane says, slightly sarcastic, and Sif presses her hand to her mouth, trying not to laugh. "I'm sorry to have brought you down here, I know you'll need the keys." 

"I'll look at it tomorrow," Sif says. "I'm guessing it's one of two problems, and one will require no new parts, so I'll check that out first." 

"Great," Jane says, as Darcy asks, "So you're saying I didn't kill it?"

"I'll give you a diagnosis tomorrow," Sif promises, laughing, "but you're probably off the hook. These things can be pretty cranky. They need a lot of love and patience. Trust me - I've got a lot of experience with these things."

She frowns at her own words, uncertain as to what she's talking about anymore: the truck, or her ex-husband. Neither of the others makes any comment, if they even notice her strange expression. They bicker like siblings; she likes them instantly. 

\+ 

By the time she showers, scrubbing off the day's drive, dinner is almost ready downstairs. Thor catches her before she goes in to help put the food on the table, smiling broadly and holding his arms out.

"I didn't get to greet you properly when you got here," he says, giving her a firm hug, which she happily returns. "I'm really glad to see you, Sif." 

"Hey, thank you for inviting me," she says, pulling back and squeezing his forearms. "I'm happy for you, Thor, Jane's great." 

"I know," he grins, and she laughs. It's good to see that someone in this family is happy, at least, though Thor has always shone a little brighter than the rest of them. "Thank you. And thank you for bringing Loki, I'm sure it wasn't...well, I'm sure it wasn't your first choice." 

"You know, it wasn't bad," she says, shrugging. "I think we're okay now." 

"Good. If road trips are that helpful, maybe I should be the one to drive him back," he sighs. 

Sif raises an eyebrow. "Right after you get married? I think your wife might object to that." 

"That she might," he agrees, and they enter the dining room together to find that the table has already been set and all the others have assembled. Sif slips into the empty chair next to Loki, and Thor makes for the opposite end of the table next to Jane. Frigga beams brightly around at the assembly and announces that dinner can be served, and plates of food are passed with mostly congenial silence.

"So," Sif says, smiling down the table at Thor, "how have you been, Thor? What are you doing these days?" 

"I'm a doctor," he says, returning her smile, at least until Loki drops his fork onto his plate and says, " _Really_?" in the most shocked voice possible. 

Her only regret, when she stomps on his foot, is that she is not wearing heavier boots. She knows from the way he sits up even straighter that he doesn't appreciate her silent disapproval, but he can cope: that was extremely rude, and he isn't a child. 

"Yes, really," Thor says. Sif has to hand it to him, she doesn't know how he manages to stay calm. 

"He's an _amazing_ doctor, actually," Jane says. "He works for Doctors Without Borders, _helping people_. I've never seen anybody who can talk to patients about complicated medical problems and still be informative but reassuring and _kind_ , but he manages." 

"Thank you," Thor says, briefly taking Jane's hand in his own before he clears his throat and looks down the table at his brother. "What about you, Loki? What are you doing lately?" 

"I teach," Loki says crisply. "At _Stanford Law_." 

"I'm so proud of you both," Frigga says, merrily ignoring the obvious undercurrent of tension running between her sons. 

"Okay, enough boring doctor and lawyer stuff," Darcy says, gesturing with her wine glass to Thor and Loki. "I know that Jane and Erik do science and maybe search for aliens--" 

"Einstein-Rosen bridges," Jane and Erik interrupt. Sif has a feeling this happens frequently. 

"Whatever, it's sciencey stuff, it's what you do when you're not hitting doctors with your car and then marrying them a year later--" 

"I _grazed_ him," Jane says to Sif, while Thor grins and nods his head. 

"--and obviously Frigga is just like, a queen of something, possibly a small country," Darcy continues, and even Loki, as grumpy as he is, has to shrug in a way that indicates his agreement with this assessment. 

Darcy looks at Sif. "So that leaves you, lady, what do you do?"

And so the rest of dinner consists mostly of Darcy asking everyone a thousand questions while they try to keep up. Loki does not contribute much in the way of conversation, but in Sif's estimation that's probably more of a blessing than anything else. 

"That was...interesting," Sif says, dumping a pile of dishes into the sink. 

"No punches were thrown," says Frigga, a serene smile on her face as she sips slowly at a glass of wine. "I would consider that a success, wouldn't you?" 

"Better than I thought," Sif agrees, and she gives Frigga a kiss on the cheek before she goes up to get ready for bed. 

Upstairs, she finds that Loki is already in their shared bathroom, washing his face, having escaped from dinner as quickly as possible. 

"You can go ahead," he says, waving his hand toward the second sink on the counter as he reaches for his own toothbrush.

"Thanks," she says, and steps closer, tossing her toothbrush and mouthwash and floss and some facewash onto the counter between them, a jumbled contrast to the orderly line of his things, which are aligned with precision behind the other sink. 

"Jane's nice," she says, lining her toothbrush with paste. 

"Hmmph," he says, meeting her eyes in the mirror. His toothbrush is in his mouth, but he talks anyway, though his words are garbled. "I 'spose. Di' ou fix t' truck?" 

"Not yet," she says, and starts to explain what she thinks the problem might be.

It's funny: they may have been stuck in the car for days with little more than a foot of space between them, but the casual domestic intimacy of standing here next to him, having a mumbled conversation around their toothbrushes, tugs at her heart much more than the roadtrip ever could have. They had a life together, once, and nothing has reminded her how much she has missed it like this quiet, easy peace, and when he finishes up before she does and wishes her good night, she is sad to see him go. 

+

In the morning, Sif dresses quickly and goes to search for Jane, ready to set to work on truck repair. Jane wisely offers her an old, well-worn flannel shirt to wear, insisting that Sif take it. 

"It's cold out there," she says, as she hands Sif both the keys and the shirt. "And you probably didn't bring clothes for car repair, I don't want you to ruin your shirt." 

Sensing that Jane is probably as stubborn as she is, Sif gives in, and soon she and the shirt and the keys are all back in the garage. 

The truck is idling when Loki comes in, carrying two steaming mugs of coffee. She's surprised to see him, but not displeased; she smiles and says, "Good morning," then turns to frown at the truck when it sputters and dies.

"Hello," he says, offering her one of the cups. "I brought you some coffee, I thought you might need it." 

She eyeballs the cups, suspicious of this display of goodwill, but she takes the mug he offers her regardless. Whatever his reason, he's not wrong: she definitely needed this. 

"Thanks," she says, taking a grateful sip of her coffee. "Now, let me guess. You're down here with me hiding from your mother because she wants you to play nice with Jane." 

"Don't be ridiculous," he scoffs, adopting a wounded expression that is altogether out of place on his face. She stares at him over the lip of her coffee cup, and he folds. "All right, yes, yes, I am, and I need your help. The coffee's a ruse and obviously not even a clever one at that." 

"Okay," she says, her smile curving around the lip of the coffee cup. "What do you want?" 

"A diversion, a distraction, _something_. I was promised that civility was all that was required of me on this little adventure, and I can't manage that if she makes me interact with people alone. _I am not a nice person_ , why does everyone keep trying to make me one?" 

"You could just tell your mother that," Sif suggests. 

"Do you imagine that will go well for me?"

"No, but I imagine it would be fun to watch," she grins. 

Whatever he might have said in response, he has to keep it inside, because just then the door starts to creak open and Frigga's voice precedes her into the room. Loki mouths one word: _help_ , but Sif only shakes her head in silent laughter. Loki has always had a knack for dishonesty, but not when it comes to his mother-- Sif has seen her unravel his most elegant lies with little more than a raised eyebrow. It's inspiring, honestly. 

"Ah, there you are, darling, I've been looking for you everywhere," Frigga says, beaming at her son. "We have so much to do before tomorrow, and I was hoping I could perhaps prevail upon you to go into town with Jane and pick up a few things-- I would send your brother, but he's otherwise occupied, I'm afraid." 

"Actually, Mother," he begins to say, but at the disappointed twist of his mother's lips, he changes course, looking hopelessly over at Sif. "Oh, well, I suppose I could--" 

"Oh, no you don't," Sif interrupts, grabbing the sleeve of his coat and pulling him backwards. "I told you, this is a two-person job, and you promised you'd help, you're not weaseling out of it that easily." 

"Sif, I had no idea," Frigga says. Sif strongly suspects that she had every idea, but it's only a feeling; nothing is written on Frigga's face save maternal concern. "You must stay, dear, she needs your help."

"Fine," he sighs, and Frigga smiles at them both before she leaves.

"Thank you," Loki says, when Frigga is probably out of earshot.

Sif toasts him with her coffee. "See how easy it is when you just trust me enough to tell me what's going on?" 

"Right," he says, nodding, slightly uncomfortable. "Well, thanks again," he adds, and heads for the door.

"Hang on a second, where do you think you're going?" 

"I thought you-- but that was a lie," he says, pointing at the empty space his mother had just occupied. 

"Not from my end, it wasn't," she grins. 

"You're joking," he says. 

"Nope," she says, settling her coffee on an old worktable in the corner. "Now come on, partner in crime, take off that coat and hand me a screwdriver, we've got a truck to fix." 

He reaches for a wrench instead, offering it to her. "Here you go," he says innocently. 

"This will go a lot faster if you stop pretending that you don't know what I'm talking about," 

"Fine," he sighs, replacing the wrench and gingerly lifting the correct implement from the table. "Here." 

"Come here, I need your hands," she says, and promptly regrets her choice of words. Fortunately, he makes no comment, he only lifts his eyebrows as he sidles over, his hands hovering over the old engine, fingers flexed as if resigned to their fate, but then she hands him a flashlight instead. 

"I need you to shine the light here," she says, pointing at the carburetor. "I have to be able to see what I'm doing, and the lighting in here is terrible." 

He does as she requests, and she bends over the engine. She realizes too late that she will have to lean into him to do what needs to be done, but there is nothing for it. Her hip knocks against his accidentally while she's working, but she stays steady and tries to ignore his presence. She would swear he leans in a little more than is necessary, but after a few minutes the work distracts her sufficiently, and she doesn't think on it for a while. An hour later, the truck is humming happily and Sif is smiling at a job well done. 

Loki, meanwhile, only looks at his hands in dismay. "Ugh," he says, curling fingers stained with engine grease. 

"You've got some on your face, too," she jokes, and he almost falls for it, his hand pausing half an inch from his unstained cheek. 

"Funny," he says, and she grins. When she goes to walk past him to shut off the truck, he reaches out, smearing grease along the side of her face. "Whoops." 

"Oh my god," she says, laughing. "I hope you're ready for the war you just started." 

"As long as you're prepared to lose," he says, and she dodges his hand neatly when it comes back for the other side of her face, wiping her palm against his cheek and down one side of his neck. 

They keep at it for a few minutes, laughing and taunting each other, until suddenly he slips on a patch of old engine oil on the floor and flies toward her gracelessly, swearing as he goes. She reaches out to steady him, but when she catches him, his weight overbalances her, and they slam up against the wall of the garage with a thud. 

"Are you all right?" she asks. His face is so very close to her own, his lean body sliding against hers; it is not the force with which they hit the wall that leaves her slightly out of breath.

"Yes," he answers. "You?" 

"Sure," she says, feeling his chest push against her as he breathes. "Never better." 

"Good," he says softly. 

"We should clean up," she says, and he nods, but neither of them move until they hear the sound of footsteps outside the garage, breaking apart with a sigh. 

Thor appears a few moments later, and Loki's good mood vanishes; Sif fights not to swing at him in frustration. 

"Mother sent me to check on progress," Thor says. He smiles at them, chuckling a little at their grease-stained faces; only Sif returns the good humor. "It looks like you've got it under control." 

"Completely," she says. 

\+ 

Dinner that evening is, thankfully, a more relaxed sort of affair than it had been the first night, and everyone is more or less left to their own devices. This suits Loki perfectly, and he makes a sandwich, poaches a bottle of wine, and settles himself in the small den in the far corner of the house to work on grading papers. It's not that he wants to do work, really, but at least if he has this excuse, perhaps no one will bother him-- there had been a vague rumor drifting about concerning board games, and he's not having any part of that. He's competed enough with Thor over the years without actually being a party to a real competition, even if it's just Monopoly.

Maybe especially if it's just Monopoly; that game can get very vicious very quickly. 

He only makes it through four essays and two glasses of wine before he is interrupted, but as it is only Sif, he doesn't mind, though he's still uncertain what transpired earlier in the garage; he only wishes his idiot brother hadn't interrupted before they'd had a chance to find out. 

"Finally got all the grease out of my hair," she says, laughing as she sits next to him, settling her own plate of food and a glass of wine carefully next to his papers. "Thanks for the help." 

"I think you would have remembered if I'd helped you get the grease out of your hair," he says. It's a bold move, but he's still ramped up from earlier, and from the flush on her cheeks, he suspects he is not alone. 

"I meant for the actual help with the car, you jerk," she says, knocking her knee against his. "But you're right, that would have been memorable." 

That isn't a _no_ that he's hearing, he thinks, and his heart beats a little faster when she slides closer so that she can peer at his students' papers. 

"Someone didn't try very hard with this one," she says, picking up a barebones essay that he strongly suspects belongs to Mister Lawrence. 

"Ah. Yes, well, someone had a 'family emergency'." 

"What a horrible time for it. You can't give them an extra day or something?" 

"Rules are rules," he shrugs, and she snorts. 

"I can't believe I'm the one saying this to _you_ , but aren't rules made to be broken?" Sif leans in a bit more, her thigh pressed up against his. "Or at least bent a little?" 

She's close enough now that he can smell the scent of her shampoo on her freshly washed hair, and between the intoxicating smell of that and the two glasses of wine he's had, he's not sure if she means the rules that govern grading papers or the rules that might prevent two ex-married people from fucking on the sofa in the house of someone they barely know while their somewhat estranged family is only a room away.

Either way, he figures that, "Rules can be bent a lot before they're broken," is a safe answer, and when she laughs and lets her hand brush his knee when she reaches out to pick up her wine glass and take a long sip before settling it again on the table. 

"What are we doing?" he asks, setting his essays aside. 

"Hmm. What do you mean?" 

"The last time you looked at me like that," he says, leaning in, "was the first time you kissed me." 

He does not expect her to pluck his wine glass from his hand and settle it on the table next to her own before turning back to kiss him, but that is nevertheless precisely what she does, one of her hands gripping his sweater, her fist centered over his heart, the other curved around his cheek, pulling him inexorably closer. Though his surprise is surely evident in the first few seconds that her wine-warmed lips are pressed to his, he recovers quickly enough, daring her to go further with one bold stroke of his tongue against hers. She makes a needy sort of noise and pulls back to scrape her teeth along his bottom lip before kissing him again, harder this time, both hands on his chest and moving lower and lower, but never quite as low as he'd like. Frustrated, he retaliates, using one thumb to trace a lazy circular path all around one of her breasts, never quite touching her like he knows she wants him to. After his thumb makes its deliciously tortuous circuit for the fourth time, she pushes his hand away entirely; for a moment he thinks he has annoyed her too much, but then her knees are on either side of his hips and she has climbed into his lap, her breasts pushed against his chest and one of her thighs purposefully angled to tease him. He groans as quietly as he can and she smiles against his mouth; he finally breaks away from her mouth and raises a curious eyebrow. She says nothing, but her expression is clear: it is his move, and he grins and nips at her neck before his hands on her hips push her down and more fully against him. 

That is, naturally, when they hear the unmistakable sound of footsteps clambering down the hall toward them, and she slides off him and back onto the seat she had vacated, both of them hastily rearranging clothing, Loki pulling his essays over his lap. 

"Hey, sort-of young people," Darcy says, sticking her head into the room. "We're playing Cards Against Humanity and we need you. Especially you," she says, pointing at Loki. "I bet yours are awful."

"I...I need to finish what I started," he says, and he gestures at his work, but it is not what he means. 

"I don't know how good I'd be at that," Sif tries to say, but Darcy shakes her head. 

"Come on, don't be that way," Darcy says, and Sif looks over at him, making an apologetic face. 

"I'll see you later?" she asks, and he nods. 

"You know where to find me," he sighs. 

\+ 

There is a rock concert playing in her veins and the only end to the noise is his lips against hers. All evening since she left him, she has been sitting with her legs pressed together under the table, trying and failing to ignore the constant thrumming need surging through her bloodstream. By the time she feels she can reasonably beg out of yet another round and run upstairs, Loki's door is shut, and she sighs and begins to get ready for bed. Alone. 

She's not sure what she expected to do once she got up here. Sleeping with him is a temporary solution; it will create more problems than it solves. So she brushes her teeth, half in the bathroom, half in the hall, staring at his bedroom door, considering her options. The hand that does not hold her toothbrush drifts over her breasts of its own accord, and she fights back a moan, ducking back into the bathroom. She spits a mouthful of toothpaste into the sink, rinses her mouth, and splashes cold water on her face, hoping it will help; it does not. With a sigh, she retreats to her bedroom, shutting the door quietly but resolutely. 

She could go and knock on his door, but what would that accomplish? They may have called a truce, but that doesn't mean it's a great idea to jump into bed with him, no matter how much she wants to. She fishes underneath her t-shirt, clasping her ring and its chain in her hand and holding it up in front of her, watching the ring sway back and forth. They may not always have been the best at communicating-- though that has certainly improved, if this trip is any indication-- but the one thing that had never suffered in all their time together had been their physical compatibility. She looks down at her bed, contemplating a night solving her own problems or letting his clever fingers do it for her. Maybe it doesn't have to be forever. Maybe it can just be for tonight, for comfort between two old lovers who have been lonely for far longer than they would like to admit. Or maybe it can be for the next several days, who can say?

"Oh, fuck it," she says, tucking the ring and its chain away in the nightstand by her bed. 

She's out the door and down the short hallway in three long strides, and he opens the door seconds after she knocks. 

"Yes?" he asks, hope in his eyes. 

"Invite me in," she says, and he does. 

\+ 

When the sun comes up, it greets a much happier Sif; she stretches out in bed with a sigh as she thinks over the events of the previous evening. The more she remembers, the more she desires to continue what they started. She had been a fool, possibly, to think that one night could make up for seven years of longing, but they had certainly made an effort, and she smiles lazily up at the ceiling before she climbs out of Loki's bed and trots to the bathroom, hoping to find him and convince him to come back to bed for a while. Someone will probably need them soon, but she needs him now.

She finds him half dressed, shirt on but unbuttoned. He is obviously fresh from the shower; his dark hair is still wet and curling at the nape of his neck. 

"Morning," she smiles, reaching for her toothbrush, standing much closer to him than is strictly necessary. 

"Good morning," he replies, leaning over to nip at her bare shoulder. 

"Mmm. Sorry I fell asleep on you like that," she says around her toothbrush, vaguely remembering that he had been midsentence in some post-coital pillowtalk when she had surrendered to sleep. 

"I've always taken it as a compliment," he says, continuing to nuzzle at her shoulder before moving on up to her neck, giving her a moment to lean over and rinse her mouth before his mouth starts a fullscale assault on her skin. She turns in his arms and kisses him, enjoying the feeling of the fabric of his shirt against her breasts. 

"There were so many things I wanted to do to you last night," he murmurs, his hands drifting down to stroke her. 

"I'm available," she tells him, moaning as his fingers slide over her clit. 

"Good," he says, and takes his hands away. "Come back to bed." 

He slips off his shirt as she crawls back into bed, but he leaves his trousers on; she frowns at him curiously until he starts to kiss up the line of her thigh. 

"Oh, fuck, yes," she moans, when she catches on. She can feel him smile against her thigh before he presses his mouth against her, his tongue sliding over her clit in a perfect rhythm. There have been days in the past where he has kept her like this for hours, circling the edge of her pleasure, but whether he's driven now by his own need or he understands that this is not that time, he doesn't tease her this time, and she fights to keep silent when he makes her come, her fingers tangled in his wet hair. 

"That's a start," he says, licking his lips. 

"Definitely," she says, holding her hand out. "Come up here. And I don't know why you're wearing those pants, you don't need them." 

He grins and reaches for the zipper of his trousers, but before he can go any further, there is a knock at the door and they both freeze. 

"Hang on, I'm... I'm not _dressed_ ," he manages to say, and when his mother's voice comes through the door, they both close their eyes in frustration. 

"Don't worry, I'm not coming in," Frigga calls. "I only wanted you to know that breakfast is ready and we do need to get an early start today. There's a lot to do, dear, and we need your help." 

"Yes, thank you," he answers. There is a pause before Frigga speaks again. 

"Have you seen Sif this morning? She didn't answer when I knocked." 

"I... I think I just heard her get out of the shower," he says quickly, and she tugs on a lock of her dry hair, looking up at him with wide eyes. He makes a panicked sort of shrug.

Frigga's voice interrupts again. "Well, hurry her along for me, would you?"

"Of course," he calls, and Frigga's footsteps fade away down the hall. 

Sif points at her hair. "I just took a shower? Why is my hair not wet?" 

"Well, it is a little damp. Whatever have you been doing this morning, Sif?" he says, leering at her, and she slaps at his ribs.

"I'm getting dressed," she announces, slipping out from underneath him. At his frustrated groan, she shrugs and shakes her head. "These old doors don't lock, Loki, I'm not risking it." 

"Where's your sense of adventure," he grouses, but he reaches for his discarded shirt all the same. 

Downstairs, they eat quickly, listening to Frigga detailing everything they need to accomplish. 

"And someone needs to take a load of chairs down to the barn along with the space heaters and the decorations," she finishes, after listing more things than Sif would have dreamed possible for such a small ceremony. 

"The barn?" Sif asks. The barn, she recalls, is a good distance from the house and its thin old walls and its bedrooms whose doors do not lock, after all. Anything could happen out there. Anything at all. "We can do it! We're happy to help."

Loki opens his mouth to protest, but then her hand grips his thigh underneath the table, and he smiles. "When do we start?" 

"As soon as possible, really--" Frigga begins, and they are on their feet and out the door, Darcy shouting, "If you need help I can come along!" 

"We've got it," they call back simultaneously, and they're out the door before anyone else can make any helpful suggestions. 

Thirty chairs, four space heaters, and a pile of wedding decorations have never been loaded so speedily before; they're on their way down to the barn in fifteen minutes, Sif at the wheel and Loki lounging the passenger seat. 

"That could have been considerably more subtle," he says. 

" _When do we start_?" she parrots. "You're really going to lecture me on subtlety?" 

"No," he says, smiling. "How fast does this old thing go?" 

"If you're going to give me shit about this little plan of mine, then I'd say it goes very, very slowly," she says, reaching out for the gearshift and deliberating misjudging the location, palming his cock through his trousers instead. 

"Oh, god," he groans. 

"We're unloading the stuff first," she tells him, and an entirely different sort of groan escapes him, but he doesn't argue with her, and once again they move everything out of the truck in record time. 

"We're not setting these things up first, surely," he says, quickly settling the last armful of chairs against the wall. For answer, she grabs his coat and pulls him toward her, raking her fingers through his hair as she kisses him. 

"If you didn't bring condoms, Loki, I swear to god," she says, fumbling with all the buttons on his coat and then his trousers underneath.

"Left inside pocket of my coat. Wait, plural?" he asks, fishing in his coat pocket himself when it is clear that she is much more interested in undoing his trousers. 

"Hey, I don't know how long we're going to be here," she tells him, kissing him soundly as she finally manages to wrap her hand around his cock. "It could take a very long time to set all these things up." 

"We want to do it right," he agrees, nipping at her ear while she takes the condom from his hand and rolls it on. She pulls him down with her onto the most convenient horizontal surface; he's to preoccupied to care what it is. He bites down on her shoulder when she strokes him again, moaning. "I want you to know that I had a plan. It involved taking my time. It did not involve a bale of hay with a blanket over it." 

"Next time," she says, nudging him forward with her knees against his hips. "God, tell me we're far enough away to make a little noise." 

"I certainly fucking hope so," he says, muttering, "oh, fuck," loudly as he slides inside her. 

"Oh my god, we're gonna get caught, and fuck, I don't care," she moans, digging her heels into his backside. "Fuck, _Loki_." 

This is ridiculous. It isn't like she hasn't gotten laid in the last seven years-- she has, often-- but every time he so much as looks at her she wants to slam him up against a wall, and now here they are, fucking in a barn in the middle of winter. She's dimly aware that she should be cold, but she's on fire; everywhere he touches her sizzles. 

"Sif, I--" he tries to say, but settles for kissing her sloppily instead, mouth half open against hers as he loses what little control he was managing to maintain when she shouts his name and comes again.

"What are we doing," he asks a few minutes later, after they've both rearranged their clothes and caught their breath. 

"I don't know," she answers honestly. "But I'd really like to keep doing it. Right after we set up all these chairs." 

\+ 

The rehearsal is mercifully short, and he is not called upon to do anything. This is both a blessing and a curse, as it leaves his mind free to wander, and after the events of last night-- and most of the afternoon, he recalls with a smile-- his mind only wanders to one subject in particular. Sif, however, _has_ volunteered to help, so all he can do is sit around and wait for her to be free again while dreaming up a list of things he would like to do with her while this cease-fire lasts. 

But a rehearsal means a rehearsal _dinner_ , or in this case, more of a lunch, so his desires must wait, and all his attempts to convince her to sneak away have been thwarted by other guests. Eventually, he gives in and joins them instead of sulking in the corner; some of Jane's friends, at least, are interesting and educated, and he has a fairly interesting discussion with a few of them for a while. 

Then, as the evening is winding down and guests are beginning to leave, he finally manages to get Sif alone, albeit in the middle of the room. 

"Is this party ever going to end?" he murmurs, looking her up and down. "I have things to do."

She smiles at him, more of her more promising expressions, and he can feel his face warming in response. 

"I have a list myself," she says, but then she studies his face and frowns, reaching out for his arm. "Are you feeling okay? Your face is a little redder than usual." 

"What?" he asks, but then he starts to notice vague itchiness around his mouth. "Oh, fuck." 

He looks over the food on the tables in terror as it starts to spread. Nothing on these tables is supposed to have peanuts, but he knows what happens when he's eaten them, and it's happening now. 

"I don't mean to alarm you," he says to Sif, just before the panic sets in and his throat begins to swell, "but I'm having an allergic reaction to something, and I can't...Sif, I can't breathe." 

"Do you have--" Sif begins, and he nods vigorously while his anxious fingers desperately work to undo the top button on his collar. "Thor!" 

"Suitcase," he manages to say, and she's gone almost before he finishes the word. Through a fog of panic, he can hear her footsteps pounding up the stairs. Someone-- Thor, he thinks-- clears the room, and he spares his brother a moment's charity for that.

"Hang on," Thor says calmly, holding onto his arm. "You're going to be fine. Just keep breathing, right? Just like when we were kids. Sif will be back with your Epipen in no time."  
.  
Thor is so self-assured that Loki does actually feel calmer, even as he struggles to breathe; dimly, it occurs to him that Thor might not be a bad doctor after all. 

"Here," Sif says, pressing the pen into Thor's hand. She takes a step towards him, but then another step backward; if he weren't currently dying, he would probably find it amusing. It's a nice visual depiction of their relationship: one step forward, another step back.

"You know how this goes," Thor is saying, uncapping the pen and smoothing down the fabric over the side of Loki's leg. "We've done this before. You ready?" 

He closes his eyes and nods, and Thor jams the pen home. There's a click from the pen and a stabbing pain in Loki's thigh and Thor stays where he is, holding the pen steady while Loki buries his face in his hands and mentally counts to ten. 

"I suppose it's good that you became a doctor," he says into his hands, when he can breathe almost normally again. 

"I suppose," Thor says. "How are you feeling?" 

"Embarrassed," Loki grumbles. "Angry. Irritable." 

"Well, that's normal," Thor sighs. "I'll give you a few minutes, but we should take you to the hospital soon." 

"I'm fine," Loki says stubbornly. 

"You went into anaphylactic shock," Thor points out. "You're going to the hospital. There's one in Auburn, it's not far." 

"I thought you were a _doctor_ ," Loki snipes. "Can't you look out for me?" 

Before Thor can answer, Frigga makes her way into the room. "I was outside with some of the guests," she says, worried. "Are you all right?" 

"Tell him I don't have to go to the hospital if he's a doctor," Loki says stubbornly, but Frigga looks, of course, to Thor, not to him. 

"What do you think?" she asks. 

"He's going," Thor says firmly. "Loki, you know as well as I do that if you have another reaction it will likely be worse, and it will probably happen soon, so we're going, and I'll drive you, just in case." 

"You heard your brother," Frigga says, and she does not add, "the _doctor_ ," but he hears it all the same. Even when Thor doesn't do what he's supposed to, he's still the golden child. Naturally. 

"Sif?" Loki asks. 

"Better safe than sorry," she says, and he sighs. 

"Fine." 

Five minutes later, he is sitting a foot away from the one person he's been trying so desperately to avoid, trapped in a car on the short drive into the nearest town with a hospital. 

"I know this seems like overkill, but Sif's right, better safe than sorry," Thor says, backing carefully out of Selvig's driveway. 

"I've never had a biphasic reaction," Loki points out. "Is this really necessary?" 

"As far as I know, you haven't had a lot of reactions this serious - a biphasic reaction isn't out of the question. It's good that you haven't had one before, it means you probably won't, but a few hours of observation are not going to kill you." 

"Sitting in a car with you might, if you're going to condescend to me the entire way," Loki snaps. 

"I'm sorry," Thor says. "I hate seeing you like that, that's all, it's...well, frankly, it's terrifying." 

"That's rich. When have _you_ ever needed to be afraid? The mighty Thor, I didn't think fear was in your genetic makeup. Sometimes I question whether or not we're even related." 

"Oh, fuck you, Loki," Thor snaps, slapping the steering wheel. "Why are you even _here_ , if you hate me so much?" 

"Mother said you _missed_ me," Loki hisses. 

"I did, I truly did, but at this moment, you know, I have no idea why!" 

Loki throws his arms as wide as he can in the small space of the car. "Well I certainly didn't miss you! I'd be absolutely delighted to be elsewhere, believe me, I was perfectly fine when I was most of a continent away from you and I will be _thrilled_ to have that arrangement resume, as soon as possible." 

"I can't believe I thought this was going to work out," Thor grumbles. 

"You were always an optimistic fool," Loki spits back, but to his extreme agitation, Thor _laughs_ , an unusually bitter sound from his brother. "What's so funny?" 

"You," Thor says, gripping the steering wheel angrily. "You have hated our father for so many years, but you are so alike, you know that? You are exactly alike." 

Loki recoils from the accusation, attempting to flatten himself against the window in an effort to put as much distance as possible between Thor's words and his person. "I am _nothing_ like him." 

"Oh yes, yes you are." 

"I will _not_ sit here and be bullied!" 

"This isn't bullying, this is the truth, Loki," Thor growls. He takes a deep breath. "Bullying is calling someone stupid for half his life without any justification whatsoever! And you _will_ listen to me, because you're trapped in this car for an hour and you have nowhere else to go." 

"This was your devious plan?! A captive audience? Oh, _brilliant_ , Thor, just fucking brilliant," Loki scathes. 

"There it is again," Thor says, shaking his head. 

"There what is?" 

This time, when Thor takes another breath, he exhales more sad, bitter words at once than Loki has heard leave his brother's mouth in all of their lives. 

"You! And Father! You're both obsessed with appearances, and you decide in all your wisdom how all of us should be acting and then you expect us to fall in line. You are just as bad as he is at scripting out other people's lives without ever taking into consideration if that's what they want, and all our lives, as far as you and Father are concerned, you have been the smart one, and then there's me. Go to business school, Thor, it's easy, you won't have to think. Come run the company, Thor, the board will do everything for you and all you need to do is put on a nice suit and smile and shake hands, that should be easy for you. Do you know, neither of you ever once asked if that was what I wanted? You have been so angry at him for so long for planning out all of your life and constantly underestimating you, but the truth is you do the same thing to me, and I think that's why you stayed away, because you ran so fucking far away from all of us but you could never outrun who you are."

Loki sits silently for a moment, struck speechless by the weight of all his brother's accusations, and the terrible sinking feeling that Thor might, just possibly, have a point, not that he would ever admit it. He looks away at the dark shapes of the trees passing by outside the window. "God, you are so--" 

"Dumb? Witless? Foolish? Idiotic? What's it going to be, Loki? How stupid is your stupid older brother this time?" 

"I--" 

"I am _not_ a fool to love my family, but god, you make it so fucking difficult sometimes, you really do." 

"If I'm guilty of thinking that way about you, you certainly didn't put much effort into dispelling that image," Loki grumbles. 

"You're right, I didn't," Thor agrees, and at that unexpected admission, Loki actually looks back over at him. "For most of my life, I thought that was who I was, and I thought I was happy with it." 

"What changed?" 

"You left," Thor says simply. He waves his hand around. "You left, and you hated me _so much_ , and I just wanted some answers, a reason why my life didn't make sense anymore. And while I was out looking for a reason, I guess I found myself along the way." 

"You grew up," Loki says, blinking. 

"Most people do," Thor replies, and Loki rolls his eyes. 

"Oh, yes, this is all my fault," he snipes. 

"For god's sake, I'm not _blaming_ you, I'm not really blaming anybody, I'm telling you that I've been there. I'm trying to tell you that I understand." 

"Fantastic. So you're just going to sit there in the judgment seat and wave your hand of justice and forgive me, is that it? You're granting me mercy because I'm the only one of us who needs it?" 

"One of us has been an angry resentful asshole and it has not been me," Thor points out. 

"Yes, you're perfect, per usual," Loki says, and Thor sighs and shakes his head. 

"I'm not, and I know that I owe you an apology because I know I failed you a long time ago, but--"

"You failed me? How, exactly, I thought you were the one who was so above it all." 

"Well, who put me there, Loki?" Thor demands. 

"Oh, don't act as though you weren't a party to your own apotheosis." 

"Of course I was!" 

"Then we agree!" Loki shouts, throwing his hands up. "Why are we arguing?!" 

"Because...because maybe we can't outrun who we are, Loki, but god knows we've both tried, and before that I think we tried to be what we thought we were born to be. But you're...you're more than that, and whoever you want to be, I just want you to know that you have my support. Always. And if I'm angry it's just... I'll take some of the blame, but brother, it's not all my fault, and goddammit, rebuilding your whole life is tough, and I've needed you and you haven't been here." 

"Well, _I_ needed to be elsewhere," Loki informs him. He plays with the collar of his shirt while Thor negotiates a turn in the road. "I was rebuilding my own life." 

"I know you were. But did it ever occur to you, in all your time away, that maybe I needed you around as much as you needed to be gone?" 

Loki peers over at his brother, who spares him a brief sincere smile before turning his attention back to the road. "What can you possibly have needed me for?" 

"Is it not enough that you're my brother and I love you?" 

"I suppose it should be," Loki says, willfully petulant; Thor does not let him get away with it. 

"You're doing this on purpose," Thor growls.

"I do most things on purpose," Loki chirps, and in spite of themselves, they laugh a little, falling into a few minutes of silence, each of them marshalling their thoughts. 

"Who else should I talk to about these things, if not you?" Thor asks. "Who do I talk to about our family? About how long it's taken me to realize I didn't have to be that person? Half the time I feel like I was trying to be you, and who else understands that if not you? You're the other part of this story, Loki, you're my _history_ , and I'm yours. I lost more than a brother ten years ago, I lost my closest friend. And I missed you. And I just thought that even if nobody else understood what we were going through, you know, at least we'd have each other." 

"Oh," Loki says, for words, for once, have failed him; in his chest, it feels like a great glacier has begun to fracture and move. 

"So, I'm sorry," Thor continues. 

"You...you don't actually owe me an apology for acting like a child when you were one," Loki says, a few minutes later. "It's what children are supposed to do." 

"I do owe you an apology for one thing I did when we were children, though," Thor says. "I was so terrified that day by the lake, when you had that allergic reaction, that after Mother and Father and the doctors took over I snuck away and sicked up in the woods." 

"You told me you got bored," Loki says. 

"I lied," Thor tells him. "I'm sorry."

"Why?" Loki asks, mystified. "Of all the bizarre--" 

"Father had already commended me for being so brave...and you...I didn't want you to be afraid of it, so I tried to pretend it wasn't so frightening. I thought that was what you needed, so that's what I did. But I did it for you. I didn't do it for him." 

"Oh," says Loki, for the second time in this conversation finding himself reduced to speechlessness as the warmth and weight of all this undeserved fraternal affection melts the ice with which he he has covered his heart. 

"Why did you think I did it?" Thor asks.

Loki gazes out at the road. "In my darker moments I suppose I thought you didn't care whether I lived or died." 

Thor sighs. "I just wanted to protect you. I wanted you to be happy. I'm your brother, it's all I've ever wanted." 

At that, the last pieces of Loki's frozen heart seem to thaw and beat again, pumping out the resentment and bitterness locked there for the last decade. He finds, unfortunately, that as it goes it is replaced by regret over the time he has lost, not only with his brother but also with Sif, and as he looks back over his life in recent memory, he can find nothing that would not have been improved by letting them love him. 

Thor puts a careful hand on Loki's shoulder. "Are you all right? Is it the--"

Loki waves his hands and shrinks against the window again. "No, no, I'm fine, it's not the allergy, it's the... _remorse_ ," he says, spitting the word out like it, too, might poison him if he swallowed it back down. "I'm sorry for all of it, I'm sorry for blaming you, but I don't want to talk about it, Thor, I really don't, because if it isn't your fault then it might possibly be mine, and I am not emotionally prepared to acknowledge that at this time." 

"That sounded suspiciously like honesty," Thor says, grinning. 

"Ten years and _a lot_ of therapy, can we not--" 

"Of course," Thor says, holding up one hand. "I'll never bring it up again, it never happened." 

"Good," Loki replies, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. 

"I just wish we could have been... more of a team. I never wanted to be your adversary." 

"I suppose...I suppose I shouldn't have made you one." 

"I make a good friend," Thor tells him, as they finally pull into the hospital parking lot, "if you ever find that you need one." 

"I'll keep that in mind," Loki says, opening the car door. 

Thankfully, though the hospital is smaller than what he's used to, there is not much of a wait, and Thor steps away to talk to the emergency room physician while Loki fills out forms. 

"They're going to keep you for six hours for observation, since you don't have a history of biphasic reactions," Thor tells him. 

"I can live with that," Loki sighs, leaning back on the uncomfortable bed. "Did you call Mother?" 

"Yes. I'm sure she'll tell Sif that you're okay," Thor says, grinning over at Loki, who frowns. 

"Yes, well, I'm sure she cares to know I'm not dying," he mumbles, and Thor shakes his head. 

"Sif still loves you, you know." 

"I thought you hadn't spoken in years," Loki frowns. 

"We haven't," Thor says. "But I have known her for a long time, and I know what she looks like when she's in love. And I know what she looks like when she's in love with _you_." 

"That doesn't mean she wants to put up with me again," Loki points out, and Thor shrugs. 

"She put up with you the whole way here," Thor says, and Loki scrambles to change the subject; this is entirely too much to contemplate on top of everything else this evening. 

"Can I ask you something?" he asks, and Thor nods. "Where the hell does Father get off, missing all of this? _I'm_ here, and I practically excommunicated myself from the family." 

Thor sighs and rubs his face with one hand. "About a year after you left, Father and I had...words," Thor says. "I called him a foolish old man, among other things. We are not exactly on good terms. We're not really on any terms, actually." 

"Why?" 

"I was angry, I thought he should have tried harder with you, but it wasn't just you," Thor sighs. "Though that was what made me start questioning everything. Thanks a lot for that, by the way," he adds, winking. 

"Existential crises are a free service I provide, apparently," Loki drawls, flicking imaginary lint off the scratchy hospital blanket. "Apologies." 

Thor shrugs. "It's all right. I wouldn't have met Jane otherwise. And all things considered, as hard as it's been, I'm happier now." 

"That's good," Loki says, surprised to find that he means it. 

"Anyway. I looked around at my life and discovered it wasn't at all what I thought it was, it wasn't what I wanted my life to be." 

"I know the feeling," Loki says. 

"I know that you do," Thor replies. 

"So what happened?" 

"I was in business school, miserable, hating every single class and trying to pretend I didn't, and working day and night for Father on top of it, and that was when I found the new microchip we were set to release on the market had a design flaw." Thor shakes his head.

Loki sits straight up in bed, outraged. "My god, that old fool, the lawsuits, we'd have been _bankrupt_." 

Thor shakes his head in fond amusement. "I was more concerned that people might have died." 

"Obviously, yes, that's terrible," Loki says, waving his hand dismissively, and Thor bites back a grin. "Much more terrible than lawsuits." 

"You did always have more of a head for business," Thor sighs. "Would you have done it? Released it? I couldn't." 

"I might have," Loki admits. "Then again, perhaps not. I remain an inveterate perfectionist, and anyway Mother would never have forgiven me. I suppose killing your customers isn't a terribly viable business strategy." 

"You suppose?" 

"Mmm. Speaking of Mother, I can't imagine she's forgiven _him_ for contemplating it." 

"They were separated at the time, and with you gone as well he wasn't thinking clearly," Thor tells him. "It's not an excuse, but it's something. Grief makes people do strange things." 

"They separated?" Loki can't quite keep the astonishment out of his voice.

"They kept it quiet," Thor says, shrugging. "I didn't even know until a year ago." 

Loki taps his fingers on the bed railing. "Second chance?" 

"Must have been." 

"Seems to be a lot of that going around," Loki jokes. 

"'Tis the season," Thor agrees, laughing. "Look, I know this is a long shot, and you're free to say no, but...I'm getting married tomorrow, and there's no one in the world I want as my best man but my brother." 

"I-- I suppose it would make Mother happy," Loki stammers. 

Thor smiles. "Surely so. She hates it when we fight." 

"I know, but she shouldn't exactly be _surprised_ ," Loki says, and they both laugh. "Especially at Christmas." 

"True. Listen, if you need us to repeat Christmas 1996, can we at least wait until after the wedding? I don't think Jane would appreciate it if I have a black eye in all the photos." Thor winks. 

"That was entirely unintentional," Loki lies. 

"You are such a liar," Thor laughs. 

"Not all the time," Loki sighs. "Not all the time." 

\+ 

It is just after midnight when Thor and Loki return; Sif is asleep on the couch in the living room when they creep inside. 

"You're okay?" she asks, and he nods. 

"He's fine," Thor says, looking between the two of them. "I'm going to bed, big day tomorrow." 

"For me as well, apparently," Loki says, and Sif wonders what he means, but she does not ask: if they are miraculously getting along enough again to have inside jokes, she will not get in the way. 

"Good night, brother, good night, Sif," Thor calls, grinning at them as he goes. 

As soon as he is out of the room, Sif flings her arms around Loki; it is too late in the evening or in her life for her to care any longer if he cares that shows concern. But he doesn't push her away and he doesn't make some sarcastic remark; his arms just slip around around her, holding her as close as she holds him. 

"I'm glad you're okay," she says, pulling back at last. 

Loki takes a deep breath. "I think...Sif, I think for the first time in a long time, I really might be." 

"Good," she says, and reaches into her pocket, taking a deep breath before she opens her hand to reveal his old wedding ring. "I found this on the floor after you left. It must have fallen out of your pocket in the shuffle earlier." 

She holds the ring in her palm like it is some sort of lost treasure, and in a way, she supposes, it is. 

"Sif, I--" 

"I already knew," she interrupts, reaching for his hand, her thumb tracing the lighter white band that encircles his ring finger. He takes the ring from her palm, but cannot seem to bring himself to put it on, perhaps thinking that if he is alone in carrying the weight of this loss then there seems to be little point to the exercise. She understands that feeling intimately. "Or maybe I didn't know, maybe I just hoped," she says, reaching under her shirt and pulling out her own ring, holding it between them on its chain. 

"You, too?" he asks, and she nods. 

"Me, too. God, we're stupid, aren't we," she says, resting her forehead against his. 

"Possibly," he agrees. 

"We were so young the first time around," she sighs. "I don't regret that we tried, but I do regret our timing." 

"It could have been better," he says, tangling their fingers together, "but so could we." 

"Maybe... maybe this time around you could try trusting me with whatever's in here," she suggests, stroking the side of his face. "I don't care what it is, but you have to trust me with it. I don't know why you thought I'd run _from_ you after all the time I spent running _after_ you."

"Maybe you could be somewhat more patient with me as I try," he says quietly, and she squeezes his hand. 

"If you're willing to make the effort, then I'm still here. Let's sleep on it, okay?" 

"All right," he agrees, and they go upstairs to bed, taking up their old positions like no time has passed at all: Loki on his side, curled up smaller than should be physically possible for a man his height, Sif stretched out around him, one arm draped over his hip and the other tucked underneath both pillows. 

"I missed this," he whispers, so softly that she thinks it might have been a dream. 

In case it was not, she leans in to press a kiss to the back of his neck, murmuring, "Me, too." His hand finds hers where it rests on his hip, and they drift away with their fingers interlaced and the rhythm of their breath synchronous. She dreams of nothing but clear skies. 

\+ 

Early in the morning, Loki wakes next to Sif; he slips out of bed and pads quietly to the bathroom, careful not to wake her. He washes up; he shaves, staring at his reflection in the mirror, turning over all the events of the previous evening and struggling to stay standing under the emotional weight of it all. 

It's funny, really: there were so many years when he would have killed to be like his brother, or at least appear to be, to be the brave one, the strong one. And now he's lived long enough to discover that not only was the view from the other side not the rosy one he had always thought it would be, but the person looking back at him had been dreaming of the view from where he'd been standing. 

"Just wanted to protect me," he mutters. "Of all the stupid--" he stops himself before he finishes his thought. Not stupid, maybe, just...not what he would have done. 

He hates feeling like they aren't _even_ ; Thor has done something for him, and though his brother would likely insist that he has no debt to repay, he cannot help but feel that he does, and he knows exactly how he must do it. He dresses quickly and quietly in the dim light of the bedroom, but he is not stealthy enough: Sif stirs in the bed, and he walks over to press a kiss to her cheek.

"I need to borrow your car for a few hours," he whispers, and she rolls over to look up at him.

"Why?" 

"There's just-- there's something I have to do. I'll be back in time for the ceremony, I swear. Trust me again, just this once?" he asks, and for answer, she kisses him. 

"Come back soon," she says, and he nods.

At slightly inadvisable speeds, Loki retraces part of the route he and Thor took the night before before veering off course and heading further north. Traffic is mercifully light; he reaches the airport in Syracuse in an hour. By half past seven, he's navigating the crowds at JFK, dodging holiday travelers greeting their loved ones and hoping that this single little good deed will serve as appropriate penance for the last ten years. Then he and Thor will be even, the scales will be balanced, and this lingering guilt can leave him in peace. 

As he directs the taxi driver to his destination, worry knotting his stomach, he remembers why he stopped being nice to people. But he's here in New York and he's in the damn taxi and he's _committed_ to this course of action, for fuck's sake. It's far too late now to turn back, else he will feel that he has to slink away a coward, and on this occasion that will not do. So this small act of kindness is happening, and if Thor even thinks about thanking him he'll never do anything good for anyone again.

Honestly. 

His destination is sparsely populated, and the doors to the offices he needs to enter are unlocked. Quietly, he treads over familiar territory until he reaches the largest, most forbidding door, which nevertheless swings open at his touch. 

"Hello, Father," he says. 

\+ 

Good deed accomplished, he makes it back to the farm with half an hour to spare before the wedding.

"You're here," Thor says, and the relief on his brother's face is almost heartbreaking. "Sif said you'd be back, but--" 

"I had something I had to do," Loki says, shrugging. "Don't ask." 

"Well, whatever it was, thank you for coming back," Thor says, gripping his brother's arm. 

"Don't thank me yet. Or at all, honestly, I'd really prefer that," he says, and Thor shakes his head, but he's smiling, and for a moment, so is Loki, but then he happens to take in what his brother is currently wearing, and his lips curl in distaste instead of amusement. "My god, your tie's terrible, what have you-- why would you wear that knot with that collar? What kind of knot is that even supposed to _be_?" 

"Well, it's good that you're here to fix it," Thor laughs. 

"There's no fixing that, I'll just have to start over. Also, Mother could have done this for you, you know," Loki points out, squinting at the dark fabric in the dim light. "She's suitably detail-oriented. Thank god you're not a surgeon. You're not a surgeon, are you?" 

"No," Thor sighs. "And you're doing it again." 

"That was affectionate banter, I'll have you know," he says, turning up Thor's shirt collar and looping the tie around. He stops for a moment and sighs. "It's a process, all right?" 

"All right," Thor says, amiably enough. "For the record, Mother couldn't have done this. She's with Jane and I'm not allowed over there." 

"Ah. Darcy's guarding the door, I take it," Loki says. 

"With a taser," Thor supplies. 

Loki pauses in his tie adjustments. "I don't know how to feel about that girl." 

Thor shrugs; Loki frowns at him, and he stills. "I think she's fun." 

"Whatever you say. There you go, much better," Loki says, stepping back to admire his handiwork, a tidy Pratt knot to replace the abomination that rested there previously. 

Thor's hand drifts up to cover the knot, his fingers investigating Loki's efforts. "Thank you," he says, but winces soon after he says. "Sorry, I know, I'm not supposed to--" 

"No, it's fine. For this, I will accept your gratitude," Loki says, a small smile threatening to break across his face. Thor smiles at him openly, warmly, but Loki notices that he checks his watch at least five times in the next sixty seconds, and he cannot seem to decide what to do with his hands. It is a little strange to realize that Thor is _nervous_ , or that it's possible for him to be. 

He remembers his own wedding day, years ago, hundreds of people milling around, demanding his time and attention while all he had really wanted was a moment's peace to try to quiet a rising panic that he could no longer ignore. Thor, he recalls, had guarded the door and kept them all out, silently granting an unspoken request, though at the time he had not taken it charitably, no matter that it had been exactly what he needed. He had instead taken Thor's insistence that his brother was not to be disturbed as some sort of insult, as though Thor were trying to say that he did not have a handle on the situation, the younger brother who was less competent, less capable, less of everything in comparison to Thor. Now, peace has chased him for a very long time, it seems; perhaps it's time to let it find him. 

Still, he is always going to be a younger sibling, and it is a time-honored tradition of younger siblings to devil their older counterparts on these occasions, so as they make their way down to the barn to take their places, he feels compelled to grin over at Thor and ask, "Nervous?" 

Without looking, Thor knocks his shoulder against Loki's. "No! When have you ever known me to be nervous?" 

"Vail, 1994," Loki says automatically. "The time I talked you into taking the black diamond trail instead of the one the guide recommended." 

"That was adrenaline, that wasn't nerves," Thor tells him, and he knows, he really does, that Thor is _joking_ , that of course he was nervous, that anyone would be, but he still feels that same old resentment bubbling up as they make their way down the slope of the road, and he is silent for the remainder of their walk. 

As he takes his place next to Thor, he has to admit that it is shaping up to be a beautiful ceremony, and one that is much more like what Sif had wanted, years ago. Should he be so fortunate as to get another chance to right that wrong, he will take it. He scans the small assembly for her, meeting her eyes when he finds her, then looking around the room and then back at her, hoping he will catch her meaning, and when she smiles he knows that she has. The chain that once held her wedding ring is missing from her neck, and he frowns, wondering if he has misread the situation, if he has once again been guilty of making plans for other people without regard to their wishes. But when she catches him looking, she curves her left hand up over her mouth, and the diamonds on her ring finger sparkle out at him, and this plan, at least, seems mutual.

He's dreaming of brighter days when Thor's voice interrupts his thoughts. "Brother?"

"Yes?" he says, leaning back, startled out of reverie.

"I'm nervous," Thor whispers, and for the first time since they were children-- perhaps for the first time in their lives-- he sees a person, not a demigod, standing next to him, fallible and fretful, and with that, the lingering resentment fades away. 

"Just keep breathing, brother," he says, reaching over to grip his brother's shoulder briefly before leaning in to add, in an attempt at levity, "I mean it, I believe you're the only doctor in here, it will have been very nice knowing you." 

Thor rumbles with muted laughter at that and seems in better spirits thereafter; Loki notes with some approval that his brother does not say thank you.

The rest of the small wedding party assembles, then Jane, looking equally as delighted and radiant as Thor, and when the ceremony commences he finds that Darcy is surprisingly competent and does not threaten to injure anyone; he would not have thought it possible. Everything goes as planned until the moment just before Darcy begins to turn to the portion of the ceremony where vows will be exchanged and tears will no doubt be shed. At that moment, the doors swing loudly open and Odin enters, all efforts at secrecy stymied by the hinges on the old barn doors. He meets eyes with Loki and nods, just once, before coming to sit beside Frigga, who kisses his cheek and reaches for his hand.

"My apologies," he says gruffly, nodding at Thor. "Please, son: continue." 

And so they do, and in short order they both actually say, "I do," and then everyone pitches in to fold the chairs and haul out tables for the reception. During the chaos, Loki manages to come face to face with Sif. 

"I have your keys," he begins to say, but he gets no further: Sif wraps her arms around him and kisses him, the bustling noise around them fading far into the background. When she pulls away, he looks down at her, equally starry-eyed and startled. She smiles and shakes her head, not in a disapproving way, though perhaps in happy disbelief. Briefly, she reaches out and puts her hand on his cheek, not caressing, just resting there for a moment before her hand trails away as she turns to assist an older woman trying to carry several heavy chairs. He puts his fingers to his lips as though he's trying to keep her there for as long as possible, but then he, too, is distracted. 

It's a small wedding and a small party, and Thor and Jane have apparently decided to forego many of the more traditional wedding rituals. No speeches are given and no garters are tossed, but they do surrender to the inevitable and gather everyone in the middle of the floor for the bouquet tossing. Jane has a good arm, and the bouquet arcs beautifully across the room, but too high: it smacks against one of the old wooden beams in the rafters of the barn and falls onto Darcy, who panics and bats it away, swearing, "Fuck no," and then, with a somewhat abashed expression, looks at her date and adds, "Uh, sorry, Ian." 

"No problem," Ian says, as the bouquet connects with Loki's shoulder and falls directly into his hands. 

"Oh dear," he says, holding it up, and everyone laughs. Across the room, Thor winks at him; next to him, Sif slips her hand into his. He offers it to her; she plucks a single flower from the arrangement and tucks it behind her ear before leaning over to kiss him on the cheek.

Afterwards, there's dancing and rather a lot of wine, and then rather a lot of champagne, and he lets Sif pull him onto the dance floor more than once, sleepily swaying to slow soft music with his cheek resting against hers. When the music ends and she leaves him to go and talk to Darcy, he finds himself alone by a table of crudité, watching the revelry slowly wind down. 

To his surprise, Jane comes to stand by him, surveying the guests in silence for a moment. 

"Did you do that?" Jane asks, pointing across the room where Thor stands with Odin, talking quietly but animatedly. 

"It depends," Loki says shrewdly, looking down at her. "How do you feel about it?" 

"I don't know," Jane says, her brows drawn together in a thoughtful frown. "I don't have a lot of love for people who make Thor's life harder." 

"I've noticed," he says, and she shrugs, entirely without apology. Well, good for her. 

"But I think he needed his family here today," she continues. "All of you." 

"Oh, please, say what you really mean," Loki jokes, and she narrows her eyes at him. 

Jane narrows her eyes slightly at him. "I'm not going to thank you." 

He shakes his head. "You _really_ shouldn't." 

"I figured I wouldn't punch you, and we'd start from there." 

He nods slowly. "That seems reasonable." 

"Good," Jane says, and wanders away to meet her husband. 

\+ 

They do Christmas, so to speak, in a rush: Thor and Jane have a flight to catch, and no one feels it's fair to keep Selvig's house a flurry of activity for a family that is not his own, though he doesn't seem to mind. No one exchanges presents, but in the early hours before dawn on the morning two days before Christmas Eve, which they have designated will be their Christmas morning this year, Loki creeps downstairs to find Thor in the kitchen, arguing with a ball of dough and trying to make Lucia buns. 

"I'm not dressing up like a gnome this year, but I'll help with these," Loki says, taking pity on his brother, who smiles a somewhat embarrassed smile and waves him over, glad of the help. 

There is no need to wake their parents with pastries and coffee; they are up with the dawn, just as Thor and Loki manage to create one suitable batch. The others drift slowly downstairs, and soon everyone is seated around the creaky kitchen table, laughing and talking. Sif does not hold his hand, as Thor holds Jane's, but she does link her arm through his and lean her head on his shoulder, so he considers the morning a success. 

Later, as they all pack up their cars, he finds that he does so reluctantly, and when he wishes Thor and Jane a safe journey, he does so sincerely. 

"I'll be home more often," Loki promises his mother, with a stoic nod in his father's direction, which Odin returns in kind. 

"I think maybe we both will," Sif says, and Frigga favors them both with one of her warmest smiles. 

"Good," she beams, opening her arms to encompass them both. Sif wanders away to say goodbye to the others, but Loki remains for a moment next to his mother.

"I don't know how you did it," he continues, frowning, "but I know you're responsible for this somehow." 

"Oh, my darling child," she laughs, gripping his hands, "You give me entirely too much credit. You must keep some of it for yourself." 

"If you say so," he says skeptically, bending to kiss her on the cheek before going to join Sif by the Bronco. 

"Ready for another adventure?" she grins. 

"Indeed so. Though, in the interest of spontaneity, I thought we might try a different route home," he proposes, as they climb into the car. 

"Oh?" 

"Well, it might add a few days, but if we made a slight detour after Salt Lake, we'd find ourselves in Vegas." 

"You did catch that bouquet," she says, laughing, but her lips are twisted over to one side. 

"Too soon," he sighs.

"I don't know," she shrugs. "We've had worse ideas." 

"Definitely," he agrees.

She starts the car. "Let's just see where life takes us." 

"Fine by me," he says, and they're off. 

\+ 

_Epilogue_

_25/12/2013, 1:07 AM_

_Dear Mister Lawrence,_

_Having had some time to reconsider the matter, in the spirit of those holidays you mentioned, I have decided to allow you to have the extension you requested without incurring a penalty on this particular occasion. I suggest you not make a habit of making such requests, or next time it will be twenty points from Gryffindor._

_Benevolently,_

_LOA_  
\--  
Prof. L. Aesir, J.D., LL.M, Ph.D.  
Associate Professor of Law  
Stanford University School of Law 

"Come back to bed," Sif's sleepy voice calls from across the room. "What's going on over there that's so important, anyway?" 

"A Christmas miracle," he tells her, and it's a joke, but maybe, just maybe, it's also possibly the truth.

**Author's Note:**

> Title of this story is from the poem, "Cliche Juice," by David Duchovny.
> 
> Endless thanks to a huge group of people for answering my picky research questions, listening to my feelings, and for making sure this wasn't riddled with errors. Specifically, thanks to: miabicicletta, nayanroo, and amaliak for being my panel of CA experts on climate, dialect, and driving; to murdur, residualaffection, and sabinelagrande for enduring my eternal fretfulness and holding my hand; to leiascully for doing all the above in addition to reading and correcting my many words; and last but definitely not least, thanks to mescaline for the prompt (and the [awesome art](http://isaacs-art-stuff.tumblr.com/post/71562507526/freedoms-an-illusion-he-had-scoffed-but-she) omg). 
> 
> Soundtrack [here](http://8tracks.com/coffeesuperhero/my-heart-is-out-traveling).


End file.
